At a quarter to six the alarm sounds, beaks
gleaming.
One slipper in the larder and the other,
with the collie, beneath the sink.
Burn the toast. Get the post. Pour the tea.
Bills and a card, all marred by spots of rain,
mud from the lane
where the postman came and fled
from Pip. The spokes and chain her merry game.
Every morning she hangs her head… her friend has
left again.
Feed the chooks, the cows, the bull and the
Jacobs, nostrils wet and steaming.
Defrost the blueb’ries, rasb’ries and
strawb’ries, ready for pie making.
Pluck the goose. Feed the dog. Biscuit and Tea.
Crumbs for Pip. Most for me.
I look out over our fields spiked with silvering
shards.
Gold briefly smothered with winter’s glass.
Pip sits on my toes, pushes her nose into my
grasp.
Worth more than metals. This is calm. Content.
Treading snow through the carpet, he comes home
From tending to the Autumn sown.
Coffee and “The Good Life”, a repeat,
Then he confines himself to the office to work.
Poring over papers, numbers, sums and sales.
My husband never made it past Wales, you know,
In the war, his Father passed away.
That’s just timing I guess.
I’m bored of the telly, of dissatisfied youth.
They try so hard to avoid the truth, they
flatter themselves.
Kid themselves.
With fame and stardom, with unreachable dreams.
When did life become a contest?
The pining has become grotesque, the whining…
I grew up in this town. A brief spell in
Scotland shepherding.
That’s as far as I go. My life is this town.
I thumb through Pratchett…no, Kipling and
Armitage tonight,
Squinting through the slowly dimming light.
I wait for him to flick the switch,
“Turn on the lamp you ridiculous girl!”
Pip squeaks, coils around his feet.
“I’ll take her out for a leak, shall I Jane?”
As he trips out the door with Barbour, wellies
and dog in toe,
I indulge in a grin. This is calm. Content.
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