Elbow Grease and Wind-up Shed

“I need to meet lots of Southminster folk,” I said,
“To ask them for their vote.”
“There’s a meeting at the Shed,” they said. “By the Maldon cemetery gate;
Fellows need to meet like women do, to share their interests, crafts and tools;
Mainly men.” I shied away. “There’ll be women too.”
So I made a note. And on that Thursday off I went.
I asked a chap walking his dog where was the Shed
“Down the garden path!” he replied. And he was right!
A garage type Shed, no cars about, so then I twigged
And giggled and laughed, and took my packed lunch
To sit in that so tranquil place I’d sat before, beside the pond,
When Michael died, and wasn’t with me anymore, except
Within my heart.
I listened to the blackbird’s song, the chaffinch and the wren,
The pheasant’s cough, and silence deep as moonlight; breathed in the peace,
Watched the flowers grow, turning their faces to the sun,
The bees at work, the buttercups at play and trees awakening
To the force of Spring.
Country folk still have a wonderfully wry sense of fun.
I was minded of me as an evacuee and the son came home
On leave before being shipped overseas. He taught me how to tell the time;
And watched me polishing my shoes and gave me sixpence
To buy some Elbow Grease at the village shop. Which I did!
Or tried to – how the women laughed, and crowed, and roared.
He had looked at me knowing he would give his life for mine.
And the sun shone that Spring day, as it does now and always will.
A different sun to shine on us its radiant light – the Son of Divine Love.