After our seasonal January closure we are now open again – only Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays during February and March. This was our first week-end and it was good to meet some new people as well as catch up with old friends. During the break one of our close friends Clare, having come up to help us get familiar with our new chainsaw, sent me the poem below. It was partly inspired by Tom who encouraged Clare to write it but probably more importantly it is based on a family who lived in the terraced cottages adjacent to the Thomas Shop. The cottages on both sides of the road were built by the Thomas family to house people working for them and to also encourage trades to develop in the village. Clare has been short-listed for one prize and given second place by another. She says:
I’ve just heard I’ve come second in The Plough poetry competition, judged by Andrew Motion, for the poem Tom prodded me into writing. Exciting! And thank you, Tom! (It was also shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, which I think I told you, then I put it in for this one.)
“This poem was developed from a memory an elderly visitor passed on to Tom. As a child, she used to love visiting her aunt, who lived in the terrace of houses next to the Thomas shop. This is something that happened in that terrace.”
The Poem is as follows:
Tŷ bach
She remembers the last time he was home,
how she watched him in tousled sleep,
how his hand grasped the rumpled blankets,
knuckles white against her neat stitched edges.
She turns her head sharply to catch him
walking past the window in his work jacket,
though she knows it still hangs on the door.
She breathes him in, her brow to its rough wool.
The neighbours say she’s not been right
since the telegram; she sees their nets move
as she pulls the door to and walks down the path,
the candle flame cupped by her hand.
The small light casts backward shadows.
In the tŷ bach, he winks from a scrap of mirror
his chin covered in shaving soap,
before shrugging on khaki and sinking in mud.
Wind blows his name through the lost knots.
The candle reaches out to a square of newspaper
threaded on a string from the nail he put up.
She sees how the flames embroider the door.
Clare Diprose


