Farmhouse

At the centre of it all,          
a grand oak table          
stands maternal. Provider and protector,          
breeding slow jealousy          
in its involuntary covalent bond        
with the scraping heat          
of an echoing Aga.          
Together here,          
the glass boned family          
huddles a nightly habit against the dark          
in communist arms          
         
Listening down, the sweet children of tomorrow -          
curls in their hair,          
fresh and anointed by this glow          
calm in smooth cheeked wonder       
hear the gossip earned by the cut and heave          
as the mothers          
turn it over. All of it continues          
with bread baskets and cinnamon wine;          
these women write the letters that          
fasten the night-locks day upon day          
and working the lye they shine and shine          
         
And the men. In the pulpit.          
Simple fathers and brothers          
clasping at their whiskey glass          
with tough knuckles          
and tougher smiles          
talk in hush, with their wool rolled collars          
frowning at the stone floor          
reflecting cold          
as this hard business grows          
from youth and relentless          
generation