Becoming the Poem

How words find us rather than the other way round

‘Avebury Trees’ by Lin Gregory, May 2025

"Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows." ~ Rilke

Dear Reader,

Back from our annual pilgrimage to Wiltshire’s ancient stone circles – Avebury and Stonehenge – I find myself reflecting on the spirit of place, how poetry emerges from sound, and how words find us rather than the other way round.

As I shape each memory into layers – story, poem, haiku – I begin to see how they shift form yet carry the same cadence. Perhaps, at last, I have found the shape my mosaic memoir has long been waiting for.

This is also a nod to the inspiring poet Jamie Millard, whose words quietly weave themselves into the rhythm of my days, shaping the way I linger in the hush between moments.

The Story

I never planned to write about Avebury – perhaps because I had left my notebook in the hotel. But sometimes, when the familiar is absent, the strange finds its way in. As my wife busied herself setting up her camera and tripod, I wandered toward my favourite grove of four ancient beeches, their roots rising from Mother Earth like open arms. Without hesitation, I sank into them.

A minute later, I heard it – a sound curling into the afternoon light, whispering through the rippling leaves. Not a drumbeat, not a rhythm – but something softer, deeper, more fluid. The beautiful music came out of nowhere, or perhaps everywhere. It simply was. The tones drifted through the landscape, weaving into the hush between each standing stone – through me, too. It was honey for my heart, soul-deep and warm as sunlight, pulling me into something quieter than thought.

Then the words arrived – not written, not composed, but spoken, rising from a place beyond knowing. At first, I hesitated. Speaking aloud to no one felt crazy. But I reminded myself - the grove was empty. So I let the words rise.

Before long, I saw him – a young man, cross-legged at the edge of the trees, his hands dancing over a Hang drum, coaxing the air into song. He didn’t strike it – he shaped it, his fingers pulling shimmering, resonant tones from the metal, sculpting music with touch alone.

The sound didn’t pulse or pound – it floated, swelling like ripples in water before retreating into silence.

Ah, the Green Witch had met her poet again, I thought. But this was no dream.

It was mesmerising, a calm so perfect that my mind finally let go. No clutter, no noise – only breath, presence and the twinkling sound of stars. For a moment, I wasn’t just listening – I was inside the music, letting it weave its cocoon of peace all around me.

The words kept flowing – lines of poems I didn’t know but somehow recognised. Like the Pied Piper, the musician pulled them from me, teasing soul into sound. Slowly, I shuffled closer, surrendering to the moment. And so, for ten minutes, we sat – him playing, me poem-ing. There was no separation. No thinking, no composing. Only speaking.

As the words took shape, something amazing happened – I became the poem. And with the flow carrying me deeper, a chorus surfaced, rising like a song from the earth:

“Oh, Great Mother, marry me, take me to your family.”

It rolled through the Hang’s tones, interweaving with my voice, the stones, the trees. In that sacred space, there was no separation – only poetry, cadence and presence.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t just writing. This was becoming – something raw, something ancient, something whole. I felt unmoored, stepping beyond myself, beyond time, beyond identity. There was no distinction between Avebury and my voice, no separation between the poem and the rhythm of his drum.

I had never heard anything so beautiful in all my life – beautiful in a way that reached inside me, filling spaces I hadn’t known needed filling. The music had played more than the air – it had played me, unlocking something gentle, something quiet. And somewhere deep inside, I knew – poetry doesn’t come from us. It moves through us, flowing from the place where life itself begins.

Shaken, I turned, searching for a witness. But, of course, no one had noticed. Not even the sheep. Then the music stopped. The young man looked up, smiling. We spoke briefly – nothing much, just quiet recognition. He stood, dusted himself off and left. Before he did, I bought a CD – for his music had touched something on the inside.

I lingered in the hush before wandering back to my wife, her camera still clicking, still catching fragments of the same afternoon. Two stories unfolding in the same place, on the same day – hers framed through a lens, mine carried in a poem. Both caught in something unexpected, unseen.

Later, in the car, I slid the disc into the stereo, eager to hear the music again. But the CD wouldn’t play. It didn’t matter – the song had already found me. In the air that afternoon, in the reverberation of his drum, in the way words wove themselves into something beyond sound.

The music had done its work – shaping the moment, carrying me beyond it, lingering long after the notes had faded. And that was enough.

Had I always been a vessel, I wondered? Not just for words, but for something deeper – something that listens, something that knows?

For years, I believed I was simply a visitor to life, passing through, collecting impressions. But now I see – I was never separate from it.

The poem carried on after we drove away. Not in ink. Not in books. But in the quiet between footsteps, the breath between words, the hush of wind curling around stone. The chorus stayed – woven in air, in flow, in the way words surrendered to silence.

“Oh, Great Mother, marry me, take me to your family."

Poetry is not something we create. It’s something we discover – something that has always been waiting. Sometimes, it’s written. Other times, it arrives in a smile, in a rhythm, in the quiet spaces between words.

And sometimes, when you least expect it – poetry finds you.

The Poem

I didn’t plan to write of Avebury
but its poetry found me

Beeches rising
roots like open arms
welcoming me home

The hush
of the Hang drum’s song
the pulse of stone-bound silence

Words rose
not written not composed
only spoken

A stranger
hands dancing on metal
coaxing music from air

I shuffled closer
I surrendered
I didn’t think
I didn’t write
I simply became

Tones wove through breath
through earth
through rhythm

Oh Great Mother marry me
take me to your family

And for a moment
there was no world beyond the hush
no separation between poem and place

Then
a smile
a parting
music slipping into memory

The CD wouldn’t play
it didn’t matter
the song had already found me

Poetry lingers in the hush
between words
between footsteps
between the stones

And sometimes
when you least expect it
it finds you

The Haiku

Hang drum curls through air
Ancient roots pull me deeper
I become the poem

Yours in words, Deborah

If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep