Tuesday, January 03, 2012

2012-021 Even More Tuesday Prompts

A pot of begonias

A shirt made of loathsome stuff

The sufferings of small boys

My ancestors in hovels and theirs in caves

A smoky fire, but warm enough

And adults mostly saints

And found too often in Welsh towns or perhaps Durham

As big as a mountain

Beyond the cottage garden

Coracles on the clear river

The cough and croup

Everlastingly green

From the open window

Good sweat like a badge

I caught a fleeting glimpse of someone back from a window

I listened to snatches of song

I paused on my way to market

I shrank and was six again, in flannel

It was an old, vaguely familiar song

It would go ill with us

Luxurious treatment.

Milk-churns by the million

More cows than I remembered

My mother's red hands

My shirt ruined and me not much better

Not where, but within the reach of my upbringing

Removing the irritants of domestic life

Renowned for warmth and endurance

Sacred beasts

She shook out a duster

Sometimes bringing forgetfulness

Tables of poultry, farm butters and rough bread

The ache and tone of melancholy

The causes of this are deep and dense and permanent

The town I was visiting

The unsealing of a past

This July morning

Those amiably blossomed wives

Thrashing rain

To look at it another way

To safeguard us from bronchitis

Tweeds and bright shawls

Untrained and effortless

Unworried women at the teat on three-legged stools

Winter Sundays come back at me

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