Green Valley 3: The Farmhouse

Rain stops now

Floods depart

A few rays of sunshine

Reach us here on the edgelands

Down stream some bright spark,

Waiting for the Severn’s tide to ebb

Blew a hole in the river wall

With a pocketful of dynamite

And watched the water flow away.

A proper job from a Gloucester boy

Now the clean up begins

Walking fields which last week were lakes

Wind tossed with waves into Biscay fury,

The former frantic novelty

Fights hard to remain in memory,

As we walk in what was green

But is now brown

We fill our coats and bags

With storm blown apples

To feed the patient horses

Kept safe in wooded peaks

Hobbled and blanketed

But safe to a colt.

How are the others doing ?

In the midst of radio noise

Statements from the House

Seedy parliamentarians

Being conspicuously visible

In making political capital

Out of this human misery

I realise I care

And walk upstream

To check up on my imaginations.

Half way up the bank a voice

Deep, yet laughing

“Wet enough for you, boy ?”

Oilskins, laced gaiters,

Big hat and bright eyes

Never seen before

But not a stranger

Oh not at all.

Holes blown in walls and worlds

My imagination shrivels

In amazement as

Earnest Shackleton himself

Beckons me across the brook

And Grabs my hand as I nearly slip

Coming up the bank onto his side

Onto the other side

“Hows things, then ?”

I slyly understate

“Musn’t grumble I suppose

but all turned out well again

considering”

he beams

“come on, its supper time,

she’s waiting.”

That farmhouse on the map

That I thought I never see again

Has opened up its doors

And beckons.

A warm light shines

From the oak framed hole of a door

And the mistress of the house

Composed and 12 years old

Curtseys and laughs.

“herself’s been baking,

so best not keep her waiting”

So what value is faery bread

How will it nourish, will I lose my heart

And stay in this farmhouse

For a hundred years ?

This is no dangerous undertow

This is pure rapture

And I hurry forward

into certain adventure.

Farmhouse table, laid with willow pattern

And Sheffield steel,

Wooden bowls with hot loaves

Hand patted butter

And the smell of stew

or was it soup?

Old wood all around

Functional and beautiful

Grandfather clock

With curious settings.

Oil lamps give uncertain light

But dark corners hold no threat,

Ardent stands, grins wolfishly

Handshake firm and welcoming,

Why am I here ?

The pattern is still spreading.

And my curiousity is aroused

Here at the farmhouse between the worlds

Where my imagination,

Is not merely concretised

But fleshed out

With more sense of what they are about

Than I, dealer in mere words and possibilities,

Any hole in my creations

Is not apparent

And I keep noticing unplanned details

The food is real and comforting,

Warm and, unlike my organic efforts,

Beats the omnipresent damp hands down.

My toes are warmed

And all relax.

Small beer is offered,

Perry ,later, with cheese.

I have to speak, and facing all,

Replete but not cowed

Say simply “Why ?”

And Miss Apparition Shackleton herself

Answers,

In the manner she choses for things of importance

We have a gap between the worlds

And need a weaver such as you,

Someone to whom myths are pearls

To keep a record straight and true.

Is this task one you could take

And tell our tales pure and direct

Where worlds collide and pattern make

And distant lives do intersect ?.

We seem to all live at a point

Where some things may be out of joint

Can sense be made of what we see

On the edge of both realities ?

Thus spake the maiden ,and all were hushed

Can you help us, think first, no rush ?

Accepting incredulity

As normal currency

As I surprise myself

I produce my notebook

And a fountain pen

And, with no hesitation accept.

Thoughts of my own kitchen

Distant now.

If this was temptation

I wanted in.