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Ian Caws

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Cottages in the Weald

 

Falling asleep the second time that night,
I found them there, cottages in the Weald.
And the people, soldiers from the Great War,
Widows who never kept their larders filled,
And flaky paint, faded by Sussex light
And old fences made good with chicken wire.

I was young then but could feel their tiredness
Through swept, grey paths, the counting of the clocks,
And mornings when cooling grates blew up dust.
Falling asleep, I saw the broken necks
Of poultry hanging up in sheds, the trace
Of country skills that saw them through the worst.

Somewhere in sleep was a place for that time,
When I was young and they seemed very old.
Somewhere I saw the damp on whitewashed walls
Or postcards from a son who had travelled.
And then, when evening sunlight had come,
I saw them searching the grass for apples.

There was something about the cottages,
Weatherboarded or flint, with close eyed cats
Resting in their particular places,
And the people I knew, who turned down lights
When I left, quiet there as a page’s
Turning, as unreachable as peace is.

 

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