Fay Slimm.

Far More.

 

 

 

Far More.

 

Rain wringing out great drops on sodden yards
wetting Sunday-faced farmers 
plus ripple of following offspring who mincing
thru\' grass yawn slowly uphill
to mud-spattered salvation of weekly worship

and damply pewed, wait for a sermon.


Built of stone-hard resign, staunch parson rule
offers no finery, portal-plain duty            
calls, aged by saline sea-ravage muted walls      
wait for maids and their matrons
to kneel and receive forgiveness by donating         

so by inbuilt faith can sin-ache alter.     


Hatted heads bow as onslaught of next storm 
fling windowed reminders to all
reverently bent but men know gale-flat grain
awaits no redemption from
sudden battering, cattle-full sheds bellow out  
for attention as gates lean on
torn hinges squeaking in vain, time is wasted 
in best attire when fierce tempest
empties coins\' plated rattle as men scramble


for doors before moor-top service ends. 


Smallholding tasking ever takes precedence
but for one holy-hour, chapel then
done and Hellfire quenched Sunday skirts lift 
as lady-boots quickly skid homeward 
to kitchen heaven of baked bread smells and 
roasting aromas when welcome hands 
closed in thanks after renewing, sin-cleansed   
and full of rude health, country folk  
can shoulder usual hazards of living off land

that asks for far more than Sunday-best.