Screenshot 2020-09-16 at 06.20.36

There was a red stain on Jessica’s dress, it grew, an inkblot, a tattoo, a cloud above the East Fen and it travelled slowly above a spread table where the community were gathered

Ben Dawlish, whose whiskers fawn and charcoal curled upward at their ends, himself fourteen years a brother, poured, while the sun glinted on the children’s faces and they adored the amber falling

An aura spread, livid, across the eastern counties where the dark peat sod gave to the blade, five proud clydesdales each to their separate duty adorned, shiny with sweat, plaited by red ribbons hidden in their curls

Forged steel white, the frog, shaped like a hammered scimitar, weathered oak always the preferred timber for the mouldboard, it bears a heavy burden, a subject once of a Sunday sermon by Brother Sherman

Jessica asked neatly to up from the hand-plained table and all the younguns’ ran, this bleached summer, swallowtail, cetti’s, even a gyr falcon all frequent in the valley, another cloud hit the sun

The Marion maids so pretty, plain in cotton blouses attended to their duties, polyester smock dresses, their hair cascades in waterfalls as the trio that run off Bear Mountain on the long walk down into Ebdon Canyon

We came today to betroth the unity of freedom, two people washed of order and servile duty, now to bare their final vow and honour not the mutiny and infidelity of disorder but celebrate impunity with grace

The ladies rose to form a line, rehearsed and fine, a harmony, a coalition, despite its fond tradition, larks rising and falling, a cuckoo’s call, trumpet swan, no sound of hen, the baton bounding

And now across the fen, the sound of oiled engines, kick-start, bass rich and low they do splutter, proving not all men have morals of the gutter, a shout, a brave salute, we pound the back, rejoin, never mutter and never mute

The sun descends behind the eastern slopes, fires lit add apricots and cardinals, a galaxy of cerulean, silver and lemon and the warmest glow, excited children late to bed, their voices lift, a golden bow to angels arrows

Jessica has changed her dress, her hair no longer is a mess, aside the fire she sings a prayer, a voice of water, a galaxy of stars and to this tune community attests this evening, this day, this union, nothing less – 



Ref. 17092020

About edenbray

I am a writer ... a beat poet who began writing poetry way back in 1966 ... 'edenbray is born ugly, wet, covered in blood, mucous & bodily functions, the effluence of my short life' ... I recently published my 1st solo Anthology - the best of 60 years writing - previously I ran my own Art Supplies Store for 40 yrs before I became a full-time writer I am a Blogger who has posted 1,000 poems - available in 24 themed booklets ... please ask for details + leave a 'like' or a comment for my encouragement, thank you so much for listening - I truly value your opinion on my work ~ in fact I literally survive on your creative input ~ edenbray
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