The troubadour rode in
Guitar strapped to his back
Posters pasted around town
Welcomed his return
As did those who knew
Of him from long before
A never-ending tour
Through city, town and village
Across the country
And around again
He was mostly happy
Mostly all the time
Perhaps he was happiest
When he first left home
Playing in new places
Meeting the new people
Learning of their stories
He found to be profound
In between gigs he wrote
New music
Changed those stories
Into songs
His notebook soon turned
Into a book of notes
First he sang of love
Then he sang of loss
Then sang of injustice
Which he fought
As a wandering minstrel
Only could
Touring the land
He sang of all the wrongs
Unkind people
Cruelty and need
His popular music exposed
The cruelty of fierce-held greed
The people longed
For his return
To hear the blues he sang
They prayed
It would come true
One day they might be freed
He thought of heroes
Leaders from history
And of whom he wrote
Suggesting possibilities
And the crowds came
To sing his words
Over the hills
Along the valleys
He wended his way
Never wanting for food
Nor a kind bed
In which to stay
Sometimes he woke
Alone at daybreak
Felt the Sun
Upon his face
Arose and followed the track
Left without a trace
Sometimes he woke
Was persuaded
To stay a little longer
Even though the draw
To travel on
Prevented any bond
His following grew
Attracted attention
From those who
Held the keys
To dreadful gates
No one wants to pass through
One day confronted
Outside city walls
He was shown the ropes
Which clearly warned
He must urgently change
His tunes
Injustice
Upon injustice
Freedom his muse
What was he to do
His voice could not
Be silent
Music was his first love
And music was his last
To live without his music
Was impossible to do
In this world of trouble
His music saw him through*
His way blocked
He travelled on
Under growing clouds
Of fear and doubt
Questioning the power of his music
The attraction of his songs
Was it right
He’d had threats
For putting words
Of the people
Into choruses
And anthems?
He put new words
To his tunes
Took them back to town
But it would not do
Because the people sang
The only words they knew
Leaving early the next morning
He reached a steep ravine
Stopped to take some water
And some cooling shade
Underneath an old oak tree
Where he was finally found
First he sang of love
Then he sang of loss
Then sang of injustice
Which he fought
As a wandering minstrel
Only could
~
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 25 prompt: Proustian questionnaire, or something.
* With apologies to John Miles for stealing a verse of his lyrics, from Music.
CLP 25/04/2024
Journey of Words 