A Poem for For Howard Bevan


Little Hamston

For Howard Bevan

The surge of green that overruns

the kitchen garden, where it rests

between hawthorn and stone, maroons

the swimming orchard’s sharp harvest.

Green shade, where the last bee drones,

slows the chariot wings, compressed

behind the brazen honeycombs

and Time is stilled, and quiet, blessed.

Welsh slates on the long roof leaden.

Sky curves over dappled gauze.

Nest-filled creepers draw a sudden

blaze of carmine curtains closed.

Though September doors stand open

the parlour flickers, fire on brass.

Flagstones warm, tomatoes ripen

all along the window glass.

The old man sips his evening tipple,

solves another crossword clue,

resting at the oaken table

worn by generations, who

drew their days from crop and stubble,

flock and herd, from morning dew

to twilight’s fall on sty and stable,

Seasons turn and turn anew.

Little Hamston, little jewel

set aside from crowd and noise;

spirit’s strength and soul’s renewal,

all our senseless rush defies.

Good folk, self-sufficient, loyal

follow here their daily lives

In narrow acres, wed to soil,

yet comprehend God’s wider skies.

© Kay Rowe May 2008


Kay visited the late Howard Bevan at Little Hamston, a property in Dyffryn, between 1990 and 2008 and wrote this poem about September. Supplied by Pat Read.