Fen - 3
The harvest came in with the rattle of tinned peaches
and ham, soup, and baked beans snatched in haste, all
to the ruddy-faced cheer of the Reverand Ian. Who appeared
in his garb once a year, faintly smelling of myrrh, and
whispered Chanel, to give a speech, between hymns, of thanks.
And then we would all give our two shillings, now called
ten-penneth, into the box that hung on the wall, for Sabi,
the Indian boy we sponsored through school, who
would write a letter once a year to inform us he knew
how to spell orchestra. But for me the harvest brought
that delight of high windows, when the elm leaves redden
before turning to naught, And the shortened days
brought that light that forced the shine in paper
and a silver to the still wet ink as it dried between words.
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