The Innkeeper’s Wife

I love this byre. Shadows are kindly here. The light is flecked with travelling stars of dust, So quiet it seems after the inn-clamour, Scraping of fiddles and the stamping feet. Only the cows, each in her patient box, Turn their slow eyes, as we and the sunlight enter, Their slowly rhythmic mouths. ‘That is the stall, Carpenter. You see it’s too far gone For patching or repatching. My husband made it, And he’s been gone these dozen years and more…’ Strange how this lifeless thing, degraded wood Split from the tree and nailed and crucified To make a wall, outlives the mastering hand That struck it down, the warm firm hand That touched my body with its wandering love. ‘No, let the fire take them. Strip every board And make a new beginning. Too many memories lurk Like worms in this old wood. That piece you’re holding – That patch of grain with the giant’s thumbprint – I stared at it a full hour when he died: Its grooves are down my mind. And that board there Baring its knot-hole like a missing jig-saw – I remember another hand along its rim. No, not my husband’s and why I should remember I cannot say. It was a night in winter. Our house was full, tight-packed as salted herrings – So full, they said, we had to hold our breaths To close the door and shut the night-air out! And then two travellers came. They stood outside Across the threshold, half in the ring of light And half beyond it. I would have let them in Despite the crowding – the woman was past her time – But I’d no mind to argue with my husband, The flagon in my hand and half the inn Still clamouring for wine. But when trade slackened, And all out guests had sung themselves to bed Or told the floor their troubles, I came out here Where he had lodged them. The man was standing As you are now, his hand smoothing that board – He was a carpenter, I heard them say. She rested on the straw, and on her arm A child was lying. None of your crease-faced brats Squalling their lungs out. Just lying there As calm as a new-dropped calf – his eyes wide open, And gazing round as if the world he saw In the chaff-strewn light of the stable lantern Was something beautiful and new and strange. Ah well, he’ll have learnt different now, I reckon, Wherever he is. And why I should recall A scene like that, when times I would remember Have passed beyond reliving, I cannot think. It’s a trick you’re served by old possessions: They have their memories too – too many memories. Well, I must go in. There are meals to serve. Join us there, Carpenter, when you’ve had enough Of cattle-company. The world is a sad place, But wine and music blunt the truth of it.