House of Rest

Now all the world she knew is dead

    In this small room she lives her days

The wash-hand stand and single bed

    Screened from the public gaze.

The horse-brass shines, the kettle sings,

    The cup of China tea

Is tasted among cared-for things

    Ranged round for me to see—

Lincoln, by Valentine and Co.,

    Now yellowish brown and stained,

But there some fifty years ago

    Her Harry was ordained;

Outside the Church at Woodhall Spa

    The smiling groom and bride,

And here’s his old tobacco jar

    Dried lavender inside.

I do not like to ask if he

    Was “High” or “Low” or “Broad”

Lest such a question seem to be

    A mockery of Our Lord.

Her full grey eyes look far beyond

    The little room and me

To village church and village pond

    And ample rectory.

She sees her children each in place

    Eyes downcast as they wait,

She hears her Harry murmur Grace,

    Then heaps the porridge plate.

Aroused at seven, to bed by ten,

    They fully lived each day,

Dead sons, so motor-bike-mad then,

    And daughters far away.

Now when the bells for Eucharist

    Sound in the Market Square,

With sunshine struggling through the mist

    And Sunday in the air,

The veil between her and her dead

    Dissolves and shows them clear,

The Consecration Prayer is said

    And all of them are near.