John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864)

A short while back I visited his grave in the churchyard at Helpston.

The village is a few miles north of Peterborough. A most peaceful setting for a man of his

Nature. On his gravestone a simple few words - “A Poet is Born not Made.”

Also in the village is his old cottage, still standing sound, as if he’s just left.

I felt privileged to see those mementoes of a peasant poet!

Les Davey

   Peasant Poet 

Born in the 18^th century; farm labourer --

His profession. Yet he became

One of the best-loved poets of his era.

If there were no work, he would set off, roam.

The fens and explore the Northamptonshire

Countryside. He achieved national fame --

Due to his love of Mother Nature. Walking

The meadows and woods, writing and sketching.

One can imagine him - strolling across

A lush meadow on a warm summer’s day,

Gazing around him. The rich turf amass

With flowers. Above him, a skylark, way

On high. He listens; its melodious

Song enchanting him, He would notice the May

Blossom in full bloom. The natural scene

Would gladden his heart, the sights, sounds and scents.

For him, fate was a cruel mistress. A few

Intellects criticized spelling, grammar

In his compositions. On the issue

Of money for his books, it didn’t go far,

He was sometimes penniless. He withdrew

Into himself, becoming depressed, therefore

Affecting his poetry, his writing.

Sadly, life seemed to lose all its meaning.

Woeful, he was to spend much of his adult life

In asylums, mainly forgotten,

Except by a few. He yearned for his wife,

Children. Also his boyhood love. He’d written

But he wanted to see them. Because of strife

And aging he became ill, a broken

Man, and left this planet. Yet he lives on,

Immortalised through his compositions.

                                             L Davey