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Four poems from Milton Abbas
1. Morning at Milton Abbas
It wants four hours yet before business starts,
before Rik walks from the Tea Clipper door,
puts up her "open - coaches welcome" sign and
stands, hands in pinny pockets, enjoying the air.
It wants three hours yet before the school bus
rattles down the road announcing its presence
with a double toot to hasten village children
gathering chatterful on the green.
It wants two hours yet before the postman
walks the path to the regulated black door
leaves letters and packets in the porch, and
calls a low "post-o" not to wake late sleepers.
It wants one hour yet before the first soul stirs,
washes the night off, demands tea, toast and
marmalade on the table under the rowan tree
that stands to protect the kitchen door.
And this hour is mine. I shall savour it
slowly, close the door soft behind me,
walk over dewy grass, down the village
street and witness the sun boiling mist
from the surface of the lake long before
it touches thatch tops and bedroom windows.
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2. On the path to St Catherine's chapel
A thousand butterflies
drink in silence
from rut pools
in sun patches
under the trees.
On the stone bench
by the lepers' hole
careless fingers
have left a faded
bluebell necklace.
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3. A name on my window
In diamond traced copper plate script
some careful man's hand has etched
Florence Bartlebury, 1824
high on a window overlooking the hill.
Each letter is perfectly formed, joined
to the next. This careful workmanship
passed some quiet afternoon hour
limning in scratch-frosting on the glass
a name that said a woman, live and warm.
When I look at the hill I see her name
graphed on the edge of vision. Caught
in the hook of the y is a fragment of the
yellow cloth last used to polish the pane.
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4. Another evening by the fire
Wood coals fall whisper-quiet from the last log
of the evening, resting on the deep ash bed.
It burns slow and clean, releasing a scent
of summer apples that blends with the sweet aroma
rising from my jug of spiced mulled burgundy wine.
It will be hard to move from the ingle-nook tonight.
Outside in the new moonlight a vixen screams
and screams again, her "take me if you dare" cries
waking farm dogs on the hills. Half a bark and
they will subside, sleep again and dream of
savage times, of wild dog chasing under wilder stars.
It will be hard to move from the ingle-nook tonight.
The church clock chimes one more hour on its cracked
bronze bell. Another hour, another glass, perhaps
a stolen biscuit to sop it up. Who's counting?
Who will know? I'll turn the page, read some more,
keeping company with the fire and the long still night.
Somerset 1998
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