Emmie Jacobs 3

The front door closed with a comforting clunk behind her. She made a mental note to scrape that moss off the  front garden path. It seemed to grow faster than ever in the winter and now in the spring its presence had become a slight annoyance. 

Her return to the market had yielded a further handful of new potatoes and a small piece of salmon which she would poach for her tea. She had also treated herself to a lemon, the juice of which would go into the poaching water. In the kitchen, neatly tidy with the breakfast bowl and tea cup resting on the drainer, she unpacked the bag. She put the chop and the salmon on the fridge shelf and the potatoes in the salad box at the bottom. The plastic bag which contained the salmon had dampened a corner of the Radio Times. It was only condensation and would have to dry out on the window sill.

She was just about to hang the bag in the cupboard under the stairs when the sudden clatter of the letter box heralded the arrival of the post causing her to start with alarm. Apart from bills she rarely received post so this lavender envelope with its large, round, unfamiliar handwriting, landing on her doormat immediately aroused her  curiosity. She picked it up and walking  into the dining room slowly turning the envelope over to find a name faintly written in the top left hand corner.
T. M Hedges.
On the dining room table in the small vase decorated with rose petals were a few pencils and a silver paper knife. The paper knife was a rather prized possession being a leaving gift from when she had retired from the office where she was an assistant school secretary. She carefully inserted the knife under the envelope flap and smiled at the comforting rasp sound of the cutting paper. The envelope contained a single sheet of lavender matching paper covered with tiny writing in total contrast to the fat writing on the envelope.

Dear Mrs/Ms Jacobs.

I hope you found your brocade shopping bag which I hung on your gate a week last Tuesday . There was no one in so I thought that would be good place to leave it. I hung it attached to the latch as I shut the gate. My daughter brought it home saying she had found it under her seat on the school bus on her way home. She took a fancy to it, her being into  "Indie Fashion" . I only found the name inside by chance when looking for a scarf Jenny had left in it. I tackled her about it and she denied knowing anything about it but justice prevailed and as I was in your area I took it while she was at school and returned it via your gate. I think some perfume had been spilt inside but it doesn't seemed to have caused any damage apart from the spicy smell. Perhaps you should take more care with such a lovely bag.

Yours faithfully

Theresa Hedges.

They never got the valediction right these days. Didn't they teach them the difference between Faithfully and  Sincerely?  There was no address at the top so no acknowledgement must have been expected. Also there was no mention of the stitches in the bottom corner of the bag. Perhaps the young girl, Jenny had done it,not wanting her mother to ask questions. And perhaps she should take more care with the bag even though it seemed to have a life of its own and got itself left in all manner of places, purely by dint of distraction. 

I wonder, she thought, what had it been up to, into whose hands it had been delivered and what its contents had been. It began to fill her imagination. What about Jenny for instance. Looking into the bag as she was about to hang it up, she noticed, tucked into a hem in the lining a small photograph, black and white and evidently of two young people dressed in the fashion of the nineteen twenties. It was just another little oddity that the bag picked up on its journeys, becoming part of other people's baggage.

JL June 30 12:29

Sorrows

It is morning time
"When sorrows come
They come not single spies
But in battalions."
I see the sun shine
On their armour,
Black and silver grey
Shadows of the time to come.
We can only slip in silence
Through their ranks,
Return and look upon another day,
Raise a finger to the wind
Take the motion of the stars,
Set a course
Slip anchor
And as the Bretons say
The lord may take the helm
For his sea is great
And our ship is small
And pray that hope
May find a place in our heart.


JL June 29 Sts Peter & Paul. 12:56

A Dress

How many days
Have we felt
The freshness
Of the rain,
The tracery
Across the 
The open sea,
The pools in pools
Across the lake
And thunder rolling
In the hills?
Not satisfied you see,
Too anxious 
For the better moment.
Time will teach us
To dress in due season 
And to rest assured.

JL June 28 14:36

Children's Laughter

In the darkest
Corridors of night
When all is heard
Are echoes
Of pursuing feet
A voice is singing
A melody of calm,
To love another dawn
And so to hear
The children's laughter
In the street.

JL June 27 12:13

Being Simple

Simply not to want
The not needed
Simply wish the best
When not merited
Simply make amends
When seeming broken
Simply be
Without the ceremony.
Simplicity in all things
Is a gift we all need.

And not to shout 
At people who can hear 
Perfectly well
Because they are not simple.

JL June 26 11:45

Tangled

Love is warm
At a distance,
A look 
In the right direction,
A touch 
On the sleeve,
A wave
From the end of the pier,
A finger beckoned
Across the room,
A whisper by the door,
And I am tangled
In the silver chain
Of your heart.

JL 25 June 12:59

Churchgoing

"You made it then?"
He  said,
As Jeremiah
Tumbled through the door.
"Do you need 
To take a breather,
Gather yourself,
Attain some sense
Of composure,
Straighten those
Tell tale creases,
Comb away 
The straggly bits of hair?"
Jeremiah smiled, 
Clenched a silent fist
And brandished it
Against the tyranny 
Of despair.

JL June 24. 11:50

Emmie Jacobs 2

That shopping bag had been left behind more times than she could remember. Why she had brought it out that morning was not altogether clear. She usually folded up a plastic supermarket bag and slipped it in her pocket. It took up less space and did not get forgotten.

The bag was made of heavy brocade and lived on a hook in the cupboard, beneath the stairs. It had been made by her husband just after he retired,when he was working as an odd job tailor for a local haberdashers, making and mending to order.  It had been part of a bolt of wild flowery cloth used for a wedding  Sherwani. She thought he said the style was Tanduri. She remembered because of the Tanduri chicken he liked so much and it amused her to think of the link. Emmie was much given to 'thoughts' of this nature and the pictures  in her head always made her smile.

She smiled when it was admired.
"That's a lovely bag you got there lady" from the Asian gentleman in the greengrocers as he placed the handful of new potatoes inside, "I'll put these in a bag , we wouldn't want to spoil it".
She thought of him having such a flowery Sherwani for his wedding coat and that also made her smile.

It was a remainder from one of the last pieces of work that David had been asked to complete and she began to think, after it had been returned several times, that he had woven a little piece of magic into it. In fact, rjust inside by the handle he had embroidered a little tag.
              
               Please return to 
               Emmie Jacobs.
               27 Chapel WLk
                CH4 7JL

And it did, usually appearing under the milk bottles on the doorstep but on one occasion, having been missing quite a few weeks, it arrived hanging on the latch inside the gate. On that occasion it had been  mended with a few odd stitches at the bottom corner probably where something sharp had poked through. Perhaps the offending sharpness had caught a hem or laddered a stocking and had become a pointed reminder to follow the request, sewed into the lining. 

It was all part of her shopping bag adventures or so she thought, as she purposefully made her way into the covered market: quite quiet at this time of the morning, with some stalls still having their covers in place. She liked a nice little peaceful shop around the stalls, having a word here and there with the traders.  She had known most of them for years but recently there seemed to have been more Asian faces behind the counters, like  that cheerful man in the greengrocery with the wild beard and the little,white, lacy hat. She paused at his stall to choose a few new potatoes. A small handful of Jersey Royals looked nice, even though rather dear. 
"Shall I put those in a bag for you?"
They would go nicely with a loin chop of spring lamb. She had some of those petit pois in the freezer at home so she would stop at the butchers on the way back. She had never really trusted the butcher on the market with his bulk cheap prices. Emmie, of course, never shopped in bulk, too much to carry for a start.

"Morning Mrs Jacobs, and what can I get for you today?"
" Some of your new seasons lamb please, a loin chop would be nice."
" It's a bit pricey this year, all going abroad, I think."
"Never mind it's only one and once in awhile." she counted the forty pence change out of the two pounds and put it her purse. "That was dear, better make sure I enjoy it," she thought. 

Making her way home from the butchers she stopped at the newsagents for a Radio Times. She Iiked to plan her viewing and listening. When she was putting it into her bag she thought that since the bag went on its last adventure it had gained a certain aroma, rather exotic it was  with a hint of cinnamon and aniseed, a touch of the hot cross bun about it. When her old tomcat went missing for several days, and came home rather smelly and distinctly the worse for wear, she knew what he had been up to, but it was altogether different when it was a shopping bag.
              
"Oh no !" she thought. It was Friday, that chop would have to wait till tomorrow.  Now what should she do for tea?  With that thought in mind she made her way back to the market and the bag together with her heart was becoming rather heavy.


JL June 23 11:46

June Friday

Oh what cold wind
Is raining 
On my Friday,
Yet I
Home and dry
Watch leaves lash
And cars splash,
Blooms dashed.

In the distance
Waves roar
Upon the shore
In the chimney
Winter whines
And summer is no more.

JL June 22 11:57

The Manner of Things

A pause today
In passing
A reflection,
Not looking
In the well
To see a shadow
Of what once
Had been.

Let us pass by
Looking past 
To the break 
In the clouds
Where should some light
Shine through.

Hold it 
As the grain of sand
In the hand
And in that hour
All will be well
All manner of things 
Will be well.


JL June 21 15:20

The Bridge

Were you there
Where once we sat
Upon the bridge
Watching herons
Fish the  pool
Beneath our feet,
And did you say 
It didn't matter
That this day
Would be our last
Together?

Such rhetoric masks the pain.

And the herons
Slowly took to flight
And you just took
The movement as your cue,
Stepping towards your future,
Slipping into my past,
Your silhouette etched
Finely into my memory
As our initials
Remained
Finely
Part of the masonry.

JL June 20 11:30

Summer Long Ago

A summer long ago
Endures.
The afternoon haze
Shimmers in the lane.
The heady camomile
At the meadow's edge
Lulls us sprawling,
By the ripples of the stream.
Then
A sudden shower
Dashes us for cover,
To the overhanging ash,
Intensifies a pungency 
Of damp fecundity.
A jay rattles 
At our presence
And so,
Dragging our feet,
Kicking up the dust,
Beheading thistles
Along the lane,
In expectancy 
Of a homely tea.
And no doubt a bath
To scrub our dirty knees.

JL June 19. 16:12

Busy Monday

Bright and breezy
Wash day 
Line dancing
Salsa in the sun
Gather in 
The shirts and knickers
Get the laundry done.
The clouds
A broken jigsaw
Scudding through the sky
Busy birds
With fledglings
Lift to tempt to fly.
All the worlds
A doing
Bouncing to and fro
But I the still observer
Have no where to go.

JL June 18. 12:36

Ferry Boat

Here on the banks
Of the slow movement,
The music of the river
Glides into the future.

The soft cadence
Of the warm rain
Patterns the leaden
Plated surface.

Still by the side
The ferry boat
Awaits the pilgrim soul.

All is not lost
Are words which stream
Beyond the reach
Of the stiffened fingers
And the tied tongue.

JL June 17 11:48

Emmie Jacobs

It was Friday morning and the elderly Emmie Jacobs buttoned up her navy gabardine, looped her shopping bag over her left arm, opened her front door, hoisted her umbrella against the softly falling  drizzle and made her way along the garden path. She brushed against the privet at the end of the garden, cascading droplets on her shoulder. As she moved into the street her thumb felt  the familiar embossed brass tag, polished by numerous hands that requested that we should  "Please shut the gate." She did exactly that and with a resigned breath she began the short walk to the Catholic church, discreetly hidden behind the cherry trees whose blossom was now threatened by wind and rain.

In the porch she retracted her umbrella  and pulled the heavy door towards her. She dipped her finger in the holy water stoop and made the sign of the cross feeling as she did the cold moisture on her forehead. Having left the,umbrella in a corner near the piety stall,she quietly made her way to her usual pew in the main aisle just in sight of the Lady Chapel, here she genuflected , knelt on the hard kneeler, paused for a moment of silent prayer, placed her bag on the pew beside her, and took out her black lace mantilla. She placed it comfortably over her head and shoulders and gently sat  down. The mantilla had been a gift from her son, brought back from a holiday in Spain.  At first she had thought it rather showy but now she rather liked it. She spent another few moments disentangling her rosary beads which had become snagged on the lace and made a mental note to put them in different pockets  in future but somehow she never remembered. Now she could settle down.
 

She preferred to sit as the old knees were not as kind these days and she needed to be comfortable to begin her thoughts. She was told it was a form of meditation but she preferred her thoughts. She never got further than the first Joyful mystery, The Annunciationa. This was where she always began and where she always finished. It seemed to her that Hail Mary began here and it suited Emmie to begin there too. She began to slip,into the past of thousands of years ago. Her eyes fell  upon the statue of the Virgin Mary in the Lady chapel to her right, the tall blue veiled figure almost looking down on her and she thought about her prayer  and the coming of the message ; "Ave Maria gratia plena, dominus tecum", just like the hymn. She had been a member of the Children of Mary as a girl and they had often sung that hymn. 

She became distracted as she adjusted the mantilla and thought of the Muslim girls on their their way to the local girl's Catholic High School wearing their head scarfs colour matched to the pale blue of their school shirt and navy blue blazer. They had been given permission to wear trousers, she remembered being told: rather more modest than the short skirts worn by the other girls.  There was an  almost imperceptible shake of the head as she returned her thoughts to the little house in Nazareth. 

She was shaken from the thought by the sacristy bell and the entrance of the priest to begin the early morning mass. There was little time for her thoughts now as she gave herself to the life long familiar steps of the ritual. The body of the church was quite dark with only the sanctuary being fully lit. She liked the feeling of being almost hidden in the dark where she could let her spirits soar beyond the trappings of the everyday and claim some tiny jewel of inner peace.

When it was all over, communion received, silver vessels all dried and polished, she once again gave a little thought to the Ave, a quick prayer for her son and daughter, and a special one for her husband David, although while not a christain and departed was still dearly loved belonging as he did to the Old Testamnet rather thanthe new. That was his way of putting it. She folded up the mantilla, dropped the rosary in her pocket and with a sigh turned back to the door. She dipped her finger in the holy water stoop, retrieved her umbrella and stepped outside.

It had stopped raining and the morning traffic had gained in size and pace.  Chattering schoolgirls bustled along the pavement on the way to their end of week lessons, lollipop bearing sentries stood at zebra crossings and all world seemed to be on the move.  Emmie stopped and quickly turned back to church. She had left her shopping bag underneath the pew again , again.


JL June 16 14:36

Evensong York

Above the arches
And the choir
Great tapestries
Of sound resound.

The plaintiff voice
Trembles in the air
Reed like, 
Calling us to prayer.

Shapes within the shadows
Surplice white 
Rustle down
To hear a lesson
Simply read.

The crescendo echoes 
From the tessellated floor
To the flaming window
Above the great west door.

To the organ's final fugue 
The singing men process
Towards the vestry arch
In the church's evening dress.

JL June 15 13:15

Aspen Leaves

The aspen leaves
Have turned to silver
Shekels 
Before the coming
Of the rain.

The judas coin
Along the potters field.

Not strange 
That such a noble coin
Betrayed  a noble trust
Taken from the coffers
Of the temple tax.

Not strange this day
That common people
Be betrayed 
By high born thieves
And cast upon the road.

Not strange that simple leaves
Be changed to herald rain.



JL June 14 13:15

Eaves Drop

Chink chink

How it would be
To open the door
On sunshine,
To let the light
Cut through.

You know the way
That sunbeams
Used to slant
All dust motes
Dancing 
In the heated air.

Such a commonplace
To recall,
But still 
A moment 
Of pleasance 
On a drip drop
Afternoon in June .

Milk and two sugars?

Please.

Might be an idea
To put your brolly
In that tray
By the door.


JL June 13. 10:56

Perfume Dancing

How soft the wind
Is in the trees today,
Where high voices 
Sing of summer 
And the perfume
Of your presence
Dances on the breeze.

So strange is scent
Which gathers up
All memories of the past:
The shaken handkerchief,
The chiffon scarf,
The swirling skirts
That flourish through the gate.

A smile, a wave
And so you journey on,
Here again in memory,
A spring of pleasure,
Where in that other time
You slipped away,
A leaf drop in the fall,
All in due season,
A moment of thanksgiving.

JL June 12 12:15

Magpie Monday

Let us consider
The magpie
Marauding my Monday,
Precarious dangling
From a feeder
Meant for smaller fry,
Whose eggs he no doubt
Filches on the quiet.
Something brutish
There is
In the downfall
Of prettier things.

I would see him off
If I were not so slow
And so would they
If they were  not so small.

The world's too full
Of monsters of such a sort
And we too lacking
In the power 
To bring them to account.


JL 11 June. 14:15

Again and Again

Oh the silence
Of Sunday,
The sitting still,
The scent of coffee
In the comfortable
Clatter of the kitchen sink,
My room,
Filled with greennest
Closeness of the trees,
The after shower
Freshness on the rose
And on my nose,
The wanting to be up and gone
Against the shackles
Of a feeble frame,
And sitting still, 
Searching for a finite verb
Again and again and again.

JL June 10 11:04

The Week's End

I have been so assailed by evil this week, not only by the state in which I find myself but in the reflections from the outer world. There seems to be no respite from terrible killings far away and even close to home.

Thank goodness for the goodness of so many, for without it, I feel we would all be bound for destruction.

Here is a notion from  medieval times, en exhortation .

"Be thy never without something to do; 
Be it reading or writing or praying
Or meditating or doing something that is useful to the community.
Exercises, however must be undertaken with discretion, nor are they to be used by all alike.
We need one kind in times of temptation
And others in times of peace and quietness.
Some are suitable to our times of sadness
And others when we are joyful.

Spend a moment of resolve in the morning 
And in the evening inquire how has sped the day in word and deed and thought." Thomas a Kempis (1380-1471)

Sometimes our days are so shallow 
But there again we cannot be always fishing in the deep.

JL June 9 12:52

Humble Bumble

No injunction today,
No order or warning,
Just the observation
That from the smallest crease 
Can be grown an unconsidered
Happen chance.

All along the boundary wall,
Populated by campanula,
Blue eyed partner
To the rampant toady flax,
Suddenly a thrusting force
A single foxglove
Perfect from the smallest crevice.

Look at me
How stiff and strong
Unassailed by wet and wind
Each purple flute
Filled with nectar
For the humble bumble.

Take me to heart.
I can slow your pace
When taken out for tea.
That's me

JL June 8 11:26

Silver Birch

The wind in your hair!
Now there's a thing 
To breathe
The spirit into life
To jog the pleasure 
Points a way ahead.

Steady yourself
By that silver birch
Which bends to your desire
And in its silvan leaves
Hearken to its laughter, 
A mockery of tedious toil

The scent of sea
Has caught my throat
And I am
Where I ever was
Beyond the billows
Wallowing 
In the lift of life.

Now the memory 
Gives me pleasure of it 
And will ever still
Until the sunset
And the lengthening shadows call me home.


JL June 7 14:47

Ashore

The shore at midnight
Moon shone
On the ebb
The shrimpers' light
Rocks and rides 
Anchored,
Settles into silt
Tilts and lists.
Its master 
Lies soft as down
Beyond the tide
Nestled in the town.


JL June 6 13:11

To Be Away

In the hurly burly
Of the celebration,
The loud and active noiseness
Of the pub,
I feel the lightest touch 
Of fingers on my wrist
Urgent to be away,
To slip the fetters
Of the here and now,
To take my leave
Of  sense and feather lightness
And the kisses on my cheek
The clasp of the embrace
The calling in the dark. 
I gather up my coat,
Turn my collar to the wind
And with a sidelong glance 
Walk towards the shore.

JL June 5 12:08

New Rose

This time
Is new
Rose time,
When
Each bud 
Bursts,
Some peach
And cream,
Or some blood red,
Splashed across
The cottage wall
Then a gentle
Fall in death
To petal snow 
Across the lawn.

JL June 4. 11:31

Meadowsweet

Cast aside 
The clouds.
See the shine
Beyond the grey.

Take the sweet
And shun
The salt
And tears.

Hear the smile
Behind the voice
And hope 
Beyond the fear.

Open the gate
Into the green field
Margined by meadowsweet
Over flowered
In the summer afternoon.

JL June 3rd. 11:15

Coronation 1953

In 1953 I was taken away and imprisoned in a sanatorium in the welsh mountains to recover from tuberculosis. I was de-loused, hair cut and scrubbed and put in a glass walled cell euphemistically called an isolation ward in case, presumably, I had any other infectious diseases. I had a month in there. Then spent the eight following months on one of the main male wards. I was not sent to the children's ward and therefore did not suffer the crying nights.

While I was there we were all assembled in serried rows of beds in a large hall to watch, on some sort of contraption: I think it was an epidiascope, the coronation of the Queen. I can vividly remember being pushed down the corridor at breakneck speed in my bed, shared with two other inmates.  My bed had big wheels, about eight inches in diameter and was able to be pushed at speed. A sort invalid chariot race ensued, totally against the rules but who cared. The last person in my bed had died. Children were  brutally honest about that sort of thing. This race occurred on film nights, concerts and any other mass hospital entertainment.

Looking back along the corridor of history, I can't say I was particularly gripped by the film or the event. I was however, gripped by the chariot race. Such is youf.

We did have a special supper of milky coffee and dripping toast  doled out by the amazing Sister  King, just before lights out. That I do remember.

JL June 2nd 11:46

Auvergne

Today I begin slowly
Waking with a dream
Of a memory.

Crisp,cool morning
Dew drenched
Through the winding
Valleys of the deep Auvergne 

A cross 
At the crossroads
Joins a crystal  cobweb
To the head and fingers 
Of a hanging Christ.

A sheen of frosted green
Across the high meadow
Sends me searching
For the shepherdess
So long remembered
For her song.

I hear the echo
And with a sigh 
Turn up my collar
And move on.

JL June 1st 11:09