Friday



Clouds roam the bald fields,
the tractor cools under corrugated iron
and workclothes waltz the wind.
Dinnertime, in the town,
an unseen, unheard gong is answered.
The Central Bar Diner’s Club assembles,
every face rented or borrowed
from the sepia photographs
that meander the rough wall.
A pint called by thumb or wink –
the semaphore of the accepted –
a half-one cradled and hidden
in a work- horned hand.
Field talk and parish banter
flow as fluently as the Yellow River.
The first real food and friendship
since last Friday,
that fragile weft of belonging
unravelling after the hour.

A reassuring rattle of small coins
and the long smile of the
red-haired woman in the Post Office
diluting the italic rain,
shortening the home road.