I am a wand'ring poet.
The last of my kind, the rest have faded and are forgotten.
I am quite old for a wanderer. I am fast approaching my 47th summer. I have never married. Wanderers were not permitted to marry in the olden days and my old tudor was set in his ways. He believed it impossible for any woman to be content with wand'ring. "She would want a house." he argued, "She would want children!" And so I made myself content with wandering while some of the other poets took to their freedom and married, but my tudor was right. Their wives weren't content with wandering. They wanted homes and farms and children. One by one, they all laid aside their parchment, quills, and lutes to take up instead shovels, plows, and hoes. Pretty soon, I was the last of them all.
By the time I began to doubt my tudor's words and arguments, I was too old to settle down and start a family but that never stopped me from wondering what it would have been like. To have a home, a real home. A wife and children to come home to. When I would walk in the door after a hard day's work, being swarmed by my sons and daughters all wanted to tell me what special thing they did today or what amazing discovery they made. My wife would quiet them and give them all something to do to finish dinner, then sit and ask me how my plowing went and talk a little. She would then pick up a basket of laundry to be folded and put away if it was wash day or take the last few loaves of bread out of the oven if it was baking day. She would never be idle. Even when we'd have our evening talks before dinner, she would pick up her sewing or knitting.
After dinner, we would both put the children to bed. Then I would take my whittling out and work on a new axe handle or a little doll or trinket to be hidden away for a birthday that was drawing near. My wife would bring out her sewing or knitting again and work while singing quietly to the baby, while gently rocking the wooden cradle with her foot.
My wonderings varied slightly. Sometimes my wife was a fiery redhead with a temper, then our children would have red and auburn hair. Sometimes my wife was a gentle blond with clear blue eyes, then our children would have light, sometimes blond, sometimes light brown hair. Sometimes my wife would have raven coloured hair and violet eyes, then we'd only have black haired children. Most often though, my wife would have dark brown hair, deep green eyes with a mild temper and gentle ways. Those children were always my favorite; the girls, gentle and beautiful like their mama; the boys, strong and handsome like their papa.
Our farm would be large with fields and meadows. A big barn full of cows and horses. The house would be large enough for our big family but cozy and snug. A little school house would be a few miles away down the road for the boys to go to in the winter to learn their letters and arithmetic.
Alas, there is no such place, not for me anyway. I have seen the farm many times. I have seen the wife. I have seen the blond wife, the red-haired wife, the black-haired wife, the brown-haired wife, but they are never mine. I have seen the children, but they are never mine.
And so I wander.
I wander until I can wander no more.
The last of my kind, the rest have faded and are forgotten.
I am quite old for a wanderer. I am fast approaching my 47th summer. I have never married. Wanderers were not permitted to marry in the olden days and my old tudor was set in his ways. He believed it impossible for any woman to be content with wand'ring. "She would want a house." he argued, "She would want children!" And so I made myself content with wandering while some of the other poets took to their freedom and married, but my tudor was right. Their wives weren't content with wandering. They wanted homes and farms and children. One by one, they all laid aside their parchment, quills, and lutes to take up instead shovels, plows, and hoes. Pretty soon, I was the last of them all.
By the time I began to doubt my tudor's words and arguments, I was too old to settle down and start a family but that never stopped me from wondering what it would have been like. To have a home, a real home. A wife and children to come home to. When I would walk in the door after a hard day's work, being swarmed by my sons and daughters all wanted to tell me what special thing they did today or what amazing discovery they made. My wife would quiet them and give them all something to do to finish dinner, then sit and ask me how my plowing went and talk a little. She would then pick up a basket of laundry to be folded and put away if it was wash day or take the last few loaves of bread out of the oven if it was baking day. She would never be idle. Even when we'd have our evening talks before dinner, she would pick up her sewing or knitting.
After dinner, we would both put the children to bed. Then I would take my whittling out and work on a new axe handle or a little doll or trinket to be hidden away for a birthday that was drawing near. My wife would bring out her sewing or knitting again and work while singing quietly to the baby, while gently rocking the wooden cradle with her foot.
My wonderings varied slightly. Sometimes my wife was a fiery redhead with a temper, then our children would have red and auburn hair. Sometimes my wife was a gentle blond with clear blue eyes, then our children would have light, sometimes blond, sometimes light brown hair. Sometimes my wife would have raven coloured hair and violet eyes, then we'd only have black haired children. Most often though, my wife would have dark brown hair, deep green eyes with a mild temper and gentle ways. Those children were always my favorite; the girls, gentle and beautiful like their mama; the boys, strong and handsome like their papa.
Our farm would be large with fields and meadows. A big barn full of cows and horses. The house would be large enough for our big family but cozy and snug. A little school house would be a few miles away down the road for the boys to go to in the winter to learn their letters and arithmetic.
Alas, there is no such place, not for me anyway. I have seen the farm many times. I have seen the wife. I have seen the blond wife, the red-haired wife, the black-haired wife, the brown-haired wife, but they are never mine. I have seen the children, but they are never mine.
And so I wander.
I wander until I can wander no more.
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