She listens to the gramophone on afternoons too wet to walk,
music of a recondite land, leading her in stealth below the stirring of the strings
below the waves flowing from the grooves of the recording
past the outside clamour of wheels hissing on the road,
steel whining on the rails and the persistent shouts of the man
who calls to the windows above for a dealer,
and sets her feet on flint and chalk, avoiding the mud in the furrows of the path
hat pinned firm, coat buttoned against the wind,
and heart and limbs set free on top of the Downs she laughs,
the fields stretching far through mist to the snake of the river.
*
At dusk she is silent, hair in disarray from the doze she denies —
‘I close my eyes to concentrate the mind’ —
picks up the book on the table beside and leafs to the page
where she’s pinned down words like butterflies,
“We live within the realm of God each to his place;
Why must disappointment all endeavour end?” and casts a look —
‘Utter rot! Do put the kettle on, we’ll have a cup of tea.’
Recondite! Exactly ! Looked it up and sure enough abstruse, esoteric, obscure!
Love trading emotions and vistas !
Fill your day dear one! This is ours to Be ~
Hope your day is at peace if that’s what you desire.
Appears to be my most sought internal prayer
Yesterday a friend came to my door, persisting, tho my admission was lagging
Being unclothed takes time to wrap full on
the day was long past noon.
Her worry slackened, too many brief words flowing
With eyes anxious surveying disarray throughout
A heavy beribboned golden box rejected unopened
No candy can deliver my heart and soul to peace in this time Compounding daily,
unfilled needs of neighbors, villages, countryside strewn with remnants of hope, promise