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: June 15th, 2017 05:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 77
Offline)
Comments3
Yes, another one of your finest, as only you can compose. You have a rare and gifted style that I can only admire, never duplicate. I look forward to more.
The language here is gently transportive, as if I were more than a voyeur and simply fell into this slice of their lives. You always paint the loveliest scenes, even if I feel the ache of hard farm labor.
A good write F.
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