Hi Arthur,
In S3 ' for us all' didn't do much, I don't think - might be able to be
sacrificed without harm. later there is a repetition of ' good bottom land'
that I similarly thought unnecessary.
A nice tale, seems a little long to me, but there is much to include and the
balance can be hard to achieve.
Cheers,
Frank
The Tales of Faust poetry page can be found at:
http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm
>
> The Smoke of Evening Fires
>
>Lord, how many times have I climbed this hill?
>Firewood is heavier these days,
>the road stonier, steeper.
>How can that be?
>
>I’ll rest here a while,
>watch the low sun trail shadows
>over the rich bottom lands,
>blue scarves of smoke rise straight,
>the white church beyond the bridge,
>hear shouts and laughter,
>the angelus echo and re-echo, dogs bark.
>
>It should be a better harvest for us all this year,
>spring came early, the blossom
>thick and white as dancers’ petticoats.
>I have a pebble in my shoe.
>How many times must I climb this hill?
>
>Smells of supper- bread and goat stew.
>
>I should have had good bottom land by the river
>not this stony hillside where nothing fat will grow.
>I should have had good bottom land,
>rich black earth, groves of olive trees,
>vines and lemons,
>a flock billowing like a cloud over the hillside.
>I might have been rich,
>drank each night in the taverna,
>laughed, sang to the bouzouki,
>wept for the troubles of lovers,
>given candles to the church.
>
>I might finish the wall this year,
>get a young back to help.
>It is no work for an old man.
>Two sons dead in the war,
>a third one gone away somewhere.
>Do I have a grandchild?
>Hah, who would have such sons?
>
>Time we caught the stallion in the salt marshes,
>his mane and tail draggled with mud,
>his hooves flailed and punched the air
>nostrils flared, teeth bared,
>the shrill cries of him, screamed like a woman,
>my sons tight on the ropes,
>how we laughed in the mud, hah,
>such sons.
>
>The stew smells good,
>rich, thick with meat and herbs,
>oregano, black olives,
>the sweet breath of new bread.
>
>I am weary and the hill is stony and steep.
>
>It is my daughter who waits for the firewood now
>sets bread on my table
>simmers stew over the heart of her fire
>brims the jug with retsina
>but my bed is empty,
>my blankets cold
>when my legs ache in the night
>I am sleepless
>and only the moon shares my pillow.
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