Spring's Kind Return
By mark_yelland-brown
- 1659 reads
She came towards the end of Autumn
A cousin of a cousin.
We were farm entrenched
Farm deep in earth yield
And carcass cuts
Drenched in milk lakes
And intense stench of 5 different types of effluent.
Life was steaming breath production
Pastoral antithesis.
She came towards the end of Autumn
Carrying the one bag
And the brain tingling smell of exotic oils
Her smile shone a light
Faint to our eyes
At first
A light that beamed brighter into the dark corners
Of our ancient yards.
The looming farm house
Ancient in disrepair
Quaked and groaned
With the decades of repressed emotions and stark harsh memories
Lost dreams
Dead hope
Family farm
Blood ties and suspicion.
Her new broom
Had a stuttered start
Too close
The surface anger.
At first
She was necessary wary
But a plan was gestating
In that warm still guileless heart
She was all colour
And our earth tones
Were slowly
Beginning to pulse glow
She wooed my mother
With real truth admiration
At genuine creative purpose
The simple victuals
The secret woven tapestries
That grew late at night
Under trembling heart fueled fingers
She recognized my mother.
Something was happening to my mother’s eyes
Imperceptibly
Inexorably
They began to lift the corners of her full mouth
More often now.
The grasses began to green the clod
Light seeping through
The dark vistas of the Western skies
Spring was making its kind return
New life was making muscle ache more purposed
I began to recognize my father
And my brothers’ faces
More distinctly.
But she was now fully disturbing our bleak communion
Too many smiles
Too much laughter
Had begun the thaw
Still too strange to assign the `good` side
But at least
It was new
Relieving the decades of farm deep drudgery
Numbing burden of soulless carry on.
I remember blurting out
One Spring bright evening
Just her reading silently
Rocking slowly in the high back chair
Me standing
Still in the glow
Of her long fine golden hair
“What do you actually do?”
She grinning lifting her head
“Oh…you know”
And that was it.
Within the next few months
Light had suffused everything
Most noticeably
The heaving full kitchen table
Food full of tasty delight
Made with the unmistakable yeast of new love
Conjured up by my mother and her delighted apprentice.
This wild beautiful child was our tonic
Her
Being her
Had shed true light
That timed with spring’s return
Had woken up bruised hearts
To new life possibilities.
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Comments
A fresh breath into the
A fresh breath into the tedium and exhausted family, interestingly and well portrayed. Rhiannon
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There's something mysterious
There's something mysterious about this, but at the same time someone else's joy in life can simply affect all those around them. It's strongly written and draws the reader right in.
Don't like the title though! It's better than that and deserves something in its own right, whatever the original inspiration might have been.
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A deep piece of writing which
A deep piece of writing which pulled me in.
The title made me think of (cold comfort farm) by Stella Gibbons, so I came to this with preconceived ideas (which I know is wrong) and of course it isn't.
I like the phrase 'yeast of new love' has a homely, welcoming feel to it.
Much to take in and admire in your telling of this.
Pops ~xx~
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I haven't seen your poetry on
I haven't seen your poetry on here before Mark, but I've always really enjoyed the short fiction that I've read. I suppose one lends itself to the other anyway, especially with the discipline needed. This is one of the best poems I've read for a while.
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Congratulations, this is our
Congratulations, this is our Facebook/Twitter pick of the day. Please like and share if you enjoy it too. Apologies Mark for the obligatory woodshed photo, please feel free to change it to something of your choosing.
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This is a very interesting story told as a poem
It would be great to expand this into a prose story even a novelette.
I have to agree with airyfairy (not easy for me) that an alternative title would be good, but the one you chose certainly caught people's attention.
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