“I’ve got a ‘Window To The Soul’
that’ll repair your pane,
and a ‘Strapping Young Lad’
to repair the axe. Usual rates,”
offers the Pedlar. “Aye we’ll
pay thee in kind,” answers the wife.
“Here’s your Restitution Soup
with Wholegrain Body of Christ.
Yon horse has chomped his Oats
of Strength and pale of Ocean’s
Blood.” She gives the same
to Waistcoat. “Don’t show me up!”
Simultaneously they pick up
their white napkins, stuff
a point of them down their shirts,
and set about the thick soup
with Welsh Wishing Spoons.
Sup jugs full of deep, refreshing
Blood Of Christ Ale, Waistcoat
dribbles his onto his napkin.
Pedlar lights Waistcoat’s claypipe,
after it sputtered and guttered,
smoke billows around the oak ribs,
mixes with the stars and sunlight.
Both snooze with gentle rumbles,
as the wife clears up, washes pots.
Awaits Season Change when she will
be Waistcoat or the Pedlar.