Sunset And Story Rise

A moon-shattered oatmeal twilight

illuminated the lane where

a snowman slumped, half-melted, as though he plugged

some dreadful font of sorrows

and a cart haltingly made its way from town

The driver clucked and gee’d

rein-slapped encouragements

while the mare decided the how and when

they might in turn, melt into the near-distant

shadow of trees

The lunar gleam filled the skies

with starpath and glister,

back-lighting a swaying spray of willow

gathered about a rill - 

that reflected in the whites of a young girl’s eyes

She stood with her feet on the dank lower spars

of the gate that lead to the vicarage

In his demeanour towards her

it was clear the driver

was younger than his dusty apparel suggested

He served his father, a miller,

who’s wealth was in never quite starving

Would driver or girl ever

say so much as half what their eyes betrayed

before the horse would again trot away

with their fate?

High Winds, Low Murmurs

High winds and low murmurs

whispered away the moor’s frost

beyond the black latticed willows

Spring rubbed at roots for warmth

in readiness to return.

And late last travellers

trudged towards town

It was an optimistic afternoon

as the carter made his last drop.

Out from the unexpectant moor

came a pedestrian

Hurrying to secure lodgings,

careworn as her crack-dawn

lung-seared hike,

from a bleak, light-breakfasted

coldwater wash of a bread-stop day

Her skirts -

muddied and a little torn -

now stepped smartly

perhaps in time

to the band in The Unicorn

murdering Colonel Wight’s Career

It nestled politely off the main square cum

village green - or village mud

with remnant stocks, butter cross and a pond

More band members strode,

honking, bishing and joining the fray

before they’d entered the rowdy throng:

Gathered to mark nothing -

it being between seasons

Thus fairs were long gone,

or far in the future…

Our traveller’s progress wavered

as the road adjusted course:

Past the yew,

which was said to have been old when Christ was born

and in from beyond the willows

By the Wight Stone

And the Dragon’s Drink

where the carter nodded a polite ’eve.

The gate girl smiled, and ran up the driveway.

And the moor was left to contemplate

the whatabouts and previous whereabouts

that locals would fish for

as the traveller loosened her bonnet.

She was given a discreet room

where the bed received her curious luggage

…a soldier’s knapsack…

She unpacked requisites

humming Colonel Wight quietly to herself

As The Unicorn’s walls swelled and sank

to the disharmonious celebrations (of nothing) below,

she ate quietly in the low-beamed

creaking sanctuary

(“Quarters”, as he would have called it,

reminiscent of a ship’s lair as it was)

then sank into an easy-chair

Night slid away with the last voices

into the lamplit dark

An extra pence brought her a warming iron

and the Neptune night creaked off with a nod

set for never never

Soon a bleak sun glowed behind the windowed drapes

its oblique gold suggesting the hour was preferably a little late;

thus permitting travel as the thaw continued its dripping dialogue.

Shumbles of soggy snow slid noisily

down stone tiled roofs

thumfing heavily in the street

Fellow travellers awaited the Bremby coach

and she hoped it wouldn’t be a stinking, flea-crushed

yapping box of trial by nagging.

Happenstance sent another coach to York

that swallowed most of last night’s fun

And one quiet, black-dressed gent

cap-clutched her afore him, to choose a seat

With a wet clop and brassy jangle

the coach departed, chaveling horse muck, sewage and slush

with her blank stare ignoring

a distant voice introducing it’s owner…

Meander

Just away beyond the duck-dabbled meander

and water-threshed mill;

Past turf-sprung rush whistles,

bog whistles and iron-stained mud,

a drover clogged the cobbles towards the junction

beyond Town’s Bridge

He was not alone, his squealing entourage

of necessity hastening towards

the ButterCross fold

Josiah Beal stood, in his bookshop door

contemplating when to close

Townfolk scuttered before more threatening snow

The drover touched his hat in deference

and Mr Beal wagged his beard

The Spanish lady slipped between them,

wrapped in a gold-tasseled shawl

In her basket were late blooms

heather and charms

and she eyed the drover’s companions

“I see you, Fonseca” he grunted

gently chivying a young stray with his cloak

“You know you can’t resist my cooking” she laughed

And in a wink, the street was empty

The fool and his bone whistle

ceased their merriment

He picked up his hat, fingering the headpiece

for farthings and silver

His few coppers would take home bread

If he could but track the carter down

And he’d tickle trout on the way…

He paused outside The Unicorn

felt the change in his pocket

wrinkled his nose and skirtled on…

He had a coach to catch next day