"Here lies John Dickinson. Prematurely mown down by Death's inexorable scythe, aged 87."
Wandering around the church, cool refuge from the August heat, Pete was all architect, stone carving and wonder: I was all names, and lives and language.
And John; he had twinkling blue eyes, and skin leather-brown from years working the land, plough…
"Here lies John Dickinson. Prematurely mown down by Death's inexorable scythe, aged 87."
Wandering around the church, cool refuge from the August heat, Pete was all architect, stone carving and wonder: I was all names, and lives and language.
And John; he had twinkling blue eyes, and skin leather-brown from years working the land, ploughing the furrow. Mischievous, kindly, warm-hearted, seemingly ageless.
'Ah John, now there's a man. Loved life, he did. Sun and rain were alike to him. Could name every bird and mimic their calls. Knew the soil like his own body. Never left the village, they said, but contentment ran through his veins like blood. Always a smile.'
And that day I knew him, his cottage, his Martha. I recognised him with his jug of ale sat against the sun-soaked wall at the end of the day. I saw his eyes light up as she sat beside him. 'Might as well take a minute.' 'Might as well lass.'
He would have lived beyond a hundred. Everyone agreed on that. But no one knows the hour, the time. Everyone agreed on that too.
Oh Jean - how beautiful this is. I'm rereading some of Lawrence at the moment, and you have conjured a person very like Tom Brangwen here for me. As with your piece for Birds of Firle, I love how you can take me to a very specific place & time so deftly. Thank you. Your link below... Tan xx
"Here lies John Dickinson. Prematurely mown down by Death's inexorable scythe, aged 87."
Wandering around the church, cool refuge from the August heat, Pete was all architect, stone carving and wonder: I was all names, and lives and language.
And John; he had twinkling blue eyes, and skin leather-brown from years working the land, ploughing the furrow. Mischievous, kindly, warm-hearted, seemingly ageless.
'Ah John, now there's a man. Loved life, he did. Sun and rain were alike to him. Could name every bird and mimic their calls. Knew the soil like his own body. Never left the village, they said, but contentment ran through his veins like blood. Always a smile.'
And that day I knew him, his cottage, his Martha. I recognised him with his jug of ale sat against the sun-soaked wall at the end of the day. I saw his eyes light up as she sat beside him. 'Might as well take a minute.' 'Might as well lass.'
He would have lived beyond a hundred. Everyone agreed on that. But no one knows the hour, the time. Everyone agreed on that too.
Oh Jean - how beautiful this is. I'm rereading some of Lawrence at the moment, and you have conjured a person very like Tom Brangwen here for me. As with your piece for Birds of Firle, I love how you can take me to a very specific place & time so deftly. Thank you. Your link below... Tan xx
Thanks so much. Very encouraging. I went to Exmouth every year fromm 11 to 18 and never forgot the graveyard.
Your link! https://thecureforsleep.com/september-issue-on-time/#jeanwilson
Oh how very beautiful Jean!
Thank you for sharing
Tracey x
Thanks for reading