1420

- jan-u-wine

I know now why the harvest was so rich that year,
 
fields fair overburdened with crop,
faunts flax-haired
beneath  an ever more golden sun.
 
I know.
 
For him.
 
For him, I know,
and, within the knowing

stays the remembering,
sharpened even yet by loss,
softened by the edges of other memories:
 
A grey-feathered quill,
silent and finally
 
at rest,
 
curved nib lying
like a blooded beak
upon darkened leather,
 
the sea-blue cup he favoured,
filled yet by half with black-bitter
tea  
 
concealed and forgotten atop a spill of dust-edged
journals.
 
His everyday pipe,
caught between split-spined
pages,
 
silver-edged tinder-box   
set with purpose
by a long-guttered candle.
 
Even his best walking stick,
           
forgotten
upon its peg by the door,
 
(though I note the absence of the thrice-spun
cloak he had of his Da,
 
                  and the dust-ghost upon the night-stand
             where once lived his mum’s water-scarred journal)
 
                   twisted thong worn near-restless-through.   
 
            ‘Tis hard.
 
                Hard to see what, after all, is left.
 
                           Harder still to note that which 
                           has
           
          gone.
           
 
                         I bow my head and tidy the bits of him remaining,
 
                      and  think upon the harvest of 1420,
                      the sweet-sad memory of it lying like a bridge
 
                      upon the Sea.