I love this byre. Shadows are kindly here. The light is flecked with travelling stars of dust, So quiet it seems after the inn-clamour, Scraping of fiddles and the stamping feet. Only the cows, each in her patient box, Turn their slow eyes, as we and the sunlight enter, Their slowly rhythmic mouths. ‘That is the stall, Carpenter. You see it’s too far gone For patching or repatching. My husband made it, And he’s been gone these dozen years and more…’ Strange how this lifeless thing, degraded wood Split from the tree and nailed and crucified To make a wall, outlives the mastering hand That struck it down, the warm firm hand That touched my body with its wandering love. ‘No, let the fire take them. Strip every board And make a new beginning. Too many memories lurk Like worms in this old wood. That piece you’re holding – That patch of grain with the giant’s thumbprint – I stared at it a full hour when he died: Its grooves are down my mind. And that board there Baring its knot-hole like a
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