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David Day

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Brass Rubbing (XX)

It was not a day for rapid movement.
In a garden where the heat was banked
against deep trees, dehiscing broom
picked out how still it was. A fantail lifted

in the thermals by the tower.
The church’s stone was very bright. High
in adjacent ash some leaves were wilting.
It occurred to me in quick succession

that the sap was now reduced, since
the wax might well have lost its firmness the result
might not be clear, that a status quo
can be too enervating, visualising how

the rubbing hand goes
up and down, advancing. Inside the church,
our brass, epitomising much that once
was rich, was lying in a private place.

Beneath a window where the stained striations
helped to moderate the sun an old woolman
with a wry expression looked at ease
as I brought out his heavy ermined shape

again, until, where I’d forgotten
what was at the base, there was no date,
no moral, name, which gave
the cool black rub clean isolation.

 

Page(s) 25-26

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