A Poem for For Howard Bevan
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.