Here Comes Treble: On The Trail
"I vividly remember the good times and the bad times of hiking, and I thought that this trail tale may do well to introduce Philippe Gaubert’s Fantasy for flute and piano,'' writes Isabel Bradley, presenting a poem which highlights the delights and drama of a long-distance hike.
There is a piece in my most recent flute and piano programme which does not have one of my poems to introduce it.
Recently, I asked an audience for their ideas or pictures which might pop into their minds as they listened to this particular fantasy. One dear lady came up to me after the performance and said, “While you were playing that fantasy, I found myself walking through a wood, on and on, endlessly. It was lovely!”
That triggered memories of hikes that I’ve experienced. I hasten to add, never again will I voluntarily take five days away from the luxuries of life such as modern plumbing, beds to sleep in, and stoves to cook on. However, I vividly remember the good times and the bad times of hiking, and I thought that this trail tale may do well to introduce Philippe Gaubert’s Fantasy for flute and piano:
On The Trail
To my left, golden pathway,
Streaming across the sea,
Waves roaring, pounding on the beach;
Strewn before me a field of boulders:
Carefully, slowly, painstakingly,
I move each foot,
Long thought before each step -
Like playing chess.
And then – a cliff to climb,
Wide, sea-gull-mewing blue above,
Hands reaching, arms pulling and aching,
The rocks below pulling at me,
Inviting me down….
On top at last,
Looking down and around and far,
Eye-stretching, leg-stretching,
Across a field of green and gold;
Then into a forest the trail takes us,
Where silver light shafts between boughs,
Turning leaves to crystal.
More chess-paces,
Wobbling across stepping-stones,
Tea-dark water rushing between;
And then it’s down a cliff-face,
Clinging on for dear life,
Each movement a moment of terror…
An age – a month, a week, a year, and hour?
Later, we reach the bottom,
and pause
And gird ourselves
to cross the raging river-mouth
Where time and tide,
According to tradition,
Wait for no man – or woman!
And as we trudge on, and up, and ever up,
Then down and endlessly on,
We look out at the ocean, blue and deep,
Far below,
Where whales cavort and blow
for our delight,
And we amble through shadowy woodlands
Where snakes, green and long, slither across the path…
Until, one day, fit and strong,
We arrive at Trail’s End,
Where all the luxuries of life
Await us.
I’ll always remember the untamed beauty of forests, mountains, rivers, water-falls and ocean as I toiled along, back-pack weighing me down, longing for an ice-cold Coke, a soft chair to sink into and somewhere to rest my weary feet.
Until next time… ‘here comes Treble!’
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By Isabel Bradley
