Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems (6 page)

If you come my way that is
…

Between now and then, I will offer you

A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank

The valley tips of garlic red with dew

Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank

In the village when you come. At noon-day

I will offer you a choice bowl of cawl

Served with a ‘lover’s’ spoon and a chopped spray

Of leeks or savori fach, not used now,

In the old way you’ll understand. The din

Of children singing through the eyelet sheds

Ringing smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;

Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread

With quartz stones from the wild scratchings of men:

You will have to go carefully with clogs

Or thick shoes for it’s treacherous the fen,

The East and West Marshes also have bogs.

Then I’ll do the lights, fill the lamp with oil,

Get coal from the shed, water from the well;

Pluck and draw pigeon with crop of green foil

This your good supper from the lime-tree fell.

A sit by the hearth with blue flames rising,

No talk. Just a stare at ‘Time’ gathering

Healed thoughts, pool insight, like swan sailing

Peace and sound around the home, offering

You a night’s rest and my day’s energy.

You must come – start this pilgrimage

Can you come? – send an ode or elegy

In the old way and raise our heritage.

To speak of everyday things with ease

And arrest the mind to a simpler world

Where living tables are stripped of a cloth;

Of wood on which I washed, sat at peace:

Cooked duck, shot on an evening in peacock cold:

Studied awhile: wrote: baked bread for us both.

But here by the hearth with leisured grace

I prefer to speak of the vulgar clock that drips

With the falling of rain: woodbine tips, and yarrow

Spills, lamp, packet of salt, and twopence of mace

That sit on the shelf edged with a metal strip,

And below, brazier fire that burns our sorrow,

Dries weeping socks above on the rack: that knew

Two angels pinned to the wall – again two.

You want to know about my village.

You should want to know even if you

Don’t want to know about my village.

My village is very small. You could

Pass it with a winning gait. Smile.

They stand in corners plain talking,

Flick the cows passing down our way.

The women – that’s the men,

Pull their aprons over their heads.

They put another around their hips,

Blue sprigged white… so…

Another to cover the one underneath

Pity to spoil: ‘Best Hundredweight of

Cow Cakes’: sacking stitched and homemade.

Now we are used to such things

Never laugh at their ways for

Our own asides carry a larger tale.

We sit and sit in a cornered rut

We pine for our love to thin the rhythm

From out of our hearts

WAR
. ‘There’s no sense in it.

Just look at her two lovely eyes

Look at those green big big eyes

And the way she hangs her tail.

Like a weasel. Ferret. Snowball

Running away on the breast of a hill.

WAR
. There’s no sense in it

For us simple people

We all get on so well.

Hal-e-bant.

The cows are on the move.

I must be off on the run:

Hal-e-bant.
pussy drwg
.

Hal-e-bant Fan Fach

Hal-e-bant for the day is long

We must strengthen it:

Ourselves
:

To the cows

Fetch them in.’

Every waiting moment is a fold of sorrow

Pierced within the heart.

Pieces of mind get torn off emotionally,

In large wisps

Like a waif I lie, stillbound to action:

Each waiting hour I stare and see not,

Hum and hear not, nor, care I how long

The lode mood lasts.

My eyes are raw and wide apart

Stiffened by the salt bar

That separates us.

You so far;

I at ease at the hearth

Glowing for a welcome

From your heart.

Each beating moment crosses my dream

So that wise things cannot pass

As we had planned.

Woe for all of us: supporting those

Who like us fail to steel their hearts,

But keep them wound in clocktight rooms,

Ill found. Unused. Obsessed by time.

Each beating hour

Rings false
.

Stone village, who would know that I lived alone:

Who would know that I suffered a two-edged pain,

Was accused of spycraft to full innate minds with loam,

Was felled innocent, suffered a stain as rare as Cain’s.

Amelia Phillips, who would know that I lived lonely,

Who would know old shrew that your goose’s wing

Did more for me than the plucked asides of daily

Nods: yet I had need of both to prove my sting.

Cold grate, who would know that I craved my love;

Who would know the pain fell twice; could realise

My loss. Only the coloured cries of stars can prove

The cold rise of dawn – understand and advise.

White village, I lost my love. – He went floating

Brushing the wet seas. He stood like a soldier trapped

And thought of me but could not speak. Fighting

Hard he stood, freeing nations the old enemy cramped.

Hard people, will wash up now, bake bread and hang

Dishcloth over the weeping hedge. I can not raise

My mind, for it has gone wandering away with hum

I shall not forget; and your ill-mannered praise.

         I walk and cinder bats riddle my cloak

         I walk to Cwmcelyn ask prophets the way.

‘There is no way they cried crouched on the hoarstone rock

    And the Dogs of Annwn roared louder than of late.’

         ‘Red fever will fall with the maytide blossom

             Fever as red as your cloak. Woe to all men.

         Food-ties will mellow in the bromine season

                   Then willowed peace may be brought.’

                   But what of my love I cried

                   As a curlew stabbed the sand:

             And we cut for the answer. They said

         ‘He would come not as he said he would come

         But later with sailing ice, war glass and fame:

                   Grieve not it is better so.’

                   I left the Bay, wing felled and bogged

                   Kicked the shale despondent and green

                   Heard Rosie say lace curtained in clogs

                   I’ve put a Yule log on your grate.