A month since she died

In my allotted convent room before I met her
I found ceratostigma, caryopteris
blue-grey October flowers and dark red leaves
I hadn’t known she was the convent gardener.
 
Pairs of black habits processed into the chapel
I saw her graceful genuflexion to the floor
and knowing she was a dancer, guessed
who she was among the other sisters.
 
We talked in gaps between the Offices.
Lauds, Matins, Vespers. Day by day
soaring lines of women’s voices
lift prayers through all the seasons.
 
We sat and talked under a red-leaved prunus
together trimmed a winter-flowering shrub
(she in her pale-blue garden trousers)
one with the shears and one to judge the shape.
 
After my last goodbye, I walk the round again
and recognize our bush, viburnum, leafless now.
In the damp cold, little pink tips of buds
are opening as they should.
 

Harriet Proudfoot

published in Smiths Knoll, Issue 37, 2006.

 
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The Best Shepherd

Five hurdles hang
from the crowbar on his shoulder.
Five pairs of eyes follow each chunk
of sandwich on his thread-thin knife,
each gulp of bottled tea.
His sheep’s black tongues
wear slowly down the saltlicks
translucent pink stones
in the frosty winter sun.
Grind up orange mangolds
worry kale stalks. In the summer
lick up clover. He never feeds us.
On the way home we keep watch
for the farmer – quickly crunch hot turnips
peel tall peppery kale.
 
The granary’s his den. The staddles foil the rats.
Its twilight smells of dog, sheep medicine, oil cake,
the ancient wheatchaff, sacks and working man.
 
Grey cap, sun-reddened face
astonishing white forehead,
retired best suit, with waistcoat
collarless shirt, black gaiters –
his leather boots are heavy on the pedals
a measured push, dog following behind
he never hurries.
 
Summer, shearing time
he wades in wool and heat
for once neat rolled-up shirt–sleeves
sheep tight between his knees.
They glide and twist, his clippers
fleece rolls off in one.
And he can use the hand shears
with the thousand-year old shape
and musical scraping click.
No need of the blue ointment
he never cuts a sheep.
 
The shepherd has no children
we children think he’s ours
but later find for twenty miles around
the children all think this.
We know he’s fearless. Stronger than anyone
and the best shepherd in the world.
 
A Hampshire man he was
his stories hold us still.
The reaper circles the last stand of corn
a partridge crushed, her string of eggs
squeezed out. A hare bolts
“Didn’t that bugger run?”
 

Harriet Proudfoot

published in Staple, Winter 1999, Issue 46.

 
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Bone Vibrations

We children are included, are swept up
in the harvest’s wild sea. Men sweat and shout
pitch up the golden wheat. Our one desire
to ride the piled waggons, dipping galleons
we hang beneath, black with the axle grease.
Strictly forbidden to ride, we wonder
watch and will the huge horse leg by leg
straining to start the treasure up the hill
hedges snatch handfuls as it squeezes by.
 
I buy a ticket for a carriage ride
the wheels have tyres this time and the seats springs
I find myself in tears; I didn’t know I knew
the alternating pull, jolt of the hooves.
The harvest done, on the last empty cart
we were allowed to bump on the loose grains.
 

Harriet Proudfoot

published in Staple, Winter 1999, Issue 46.

 
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Homecoming

His ship is due now
We’ve been up the hill to see the masts
But it’s his captain who comes
Up the path, and slowly.
His cap is on straight
 
All these months
He always comes back
The captain said not this time
The captain’s brought father’s presents
I thought I wanted the shawl.
 

Harriet Proudfoot

published in Smiths Knoll, Issue 33, 2004.

 
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