Day 205. Wednesday 7th November

© 2018 Steve Cook

Stratford

At Stratford I was thinking of Shakespeare

And concluded he could not have dreamed

Even remotely of the centuries in his far future

Changed beyond recognition but for his name.

His work has been the golden thread that links

The shifting sands of war and flux and change,

A few plays scratched with quill in fading ink

Outlive nations, unfading e'en where empires fade.

Could he have dreamed of this future a single jot

His words performed in nations not yet birthed

Or himself elected to the status of a god

Who thought his plays sole measure of his worth?

Would he understand this adoration for his words

That e'er fell short of the image in his mind

Or embarrassed think his greatness was not earned

For the many faults and quirks he alone could find?

Or would he think perhaps the greatness is not his

But belongs instead to those who carried forth his name?

The millions who by their own agreements bid

Him be carried on their shoulders to his fame?

In truth this legend was not solely made by he alone,

Who made fine art of this device of human speech

He cast the seed for other men to nurture well once sown

Vast fields husbanded and grown beyond his reach.