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.
-
Author:
Fay Slimm. (
Offline) - Published: January 30th, 2020 03:25
- Comment from author about the poem: Back by request this tribute to life vested in farming. Hope you enjoy.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 28
Offline)
Comments4
A fine write Fay. Oohh, hardly worth wearing Sunday best if we got to contend with all that. That's a lot of weather to be having! lol.
Oohh, it's never 'proper rain' or is it?! Is it that drizzle stuff?!
BRIAN HERE ~ Thanks for sharing FAY ~ beautifully penned wit a Betjemanesque flair for rural description. See Ireland with Emily ! It brings to mind preaching at the Gospel Meeting on Sunday Evening (6:30 to 7:30pm) in Rural N Ireland. It always rains in NI ! They all arrived (At 6:25) - soaked but in their Sunday Best - they had come to the Ecclasia - The House of God. They sang the Hymns with reverance and none of them slept during the sermon - on The Prodigal Son ! I closed the Service @ 7:25 and by 7:30 most of them had deoarted - no Tea & Irish Scones. The retired Folk who tidied the Chairs & collected the Hymn Books etc and locked up the Bretheren Chapel explained that the majority were Cattle Farmers and need to attend to their Beasts even on the Lords Day ~ Amen. As in your Poem I was impressed with their devotion on a cold & damp evening and especially the fact that they had trned out Booted & Suited & every Sister with a fine Chapeau fit for a trip to Buck House. Of such memories are our lives forged. I was staying with one of the Congregation and we did get our Tea & Scones and a nice bit of Ham with fresh picked Irish boiled whole new potatoes !
Blessings & Peace & Joy
Love BRIAN & ANGELA XOX
I seem to recall these words made me feel so very bloomin nostalgic the first time I stumbled upon them... and the feeling is just as intense this time round..... a warm glow on a cold Feb day... lovely…
Neville
We need these warm glows this windy- wet morning mon ami - - grateful for your popping into my page............... glad you enjoyed my dive into Sunday-faced countryside second-time round.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.