Rufus keeps a calf-bound notebook on the shelf by the hearth for the lines that arrive uninvited. Most of them come out as songs, which is his mother’s way of telling things; a few, on the days that need it, as plainer verse. The poems go in on the right; whatever else comes into his head while he is at it goes in on the left.
The Level Day
Oh, the day and the dark came up the lane And met at the top field gate, And the day said, “I’ve had the best o’ the year, And now I mun go, for it’s late.”
So light the lamp at the end o’ the day And bank the fire up high, For the swallows are gone from the Harrop wire And the dark’s come up to bide.
The swallows sat on the Harrop wire, Two-and-twenty in a row, And they talked of the sun on the far side o’ the sea And the long road they mun go.
And I never saw them rise and turn, And I never saw them fly; I only saw the empty wire Ruled clean across the sky.
So light the lamp at the end o’ the day And bank the fire up high, For the swallows are gone from the Harrop wire And the dark’s come up to bide.
The dark said, “Now it’s mine to keep Till the curlews come again,” And it laid its coat on the Dobcross roofs And its cap upon the Tame.
But there’s one as comes up the lane at dusk On a bicycle, wet through, And the dark may keep what the dark has won, But it’ll not keep her from a brew.
So light the lamp at the end o’ the day And set the kettle on, For the swallows are gone from the Harrop wire, But not everyone’s gone.
— Dobcross, September 1953
The Wall-Builder’s Song
The frost walked up the top field wall One night when the moon were thin, And it put its thumb in every joint And it let the thaw come in.
So it’s two over one, and one on two, And a through to bind the pair, And cover the joint where the water runs, And the wall will still be there.
My father drew it on the slate When I stood at his knee: “One stone’s a stone, and two’s a heap, But three’s a wall,” said he.
I’ve set a spar to a thousandth part And a bolt to a hair’s width true, But there’s nowt in the book o’ thousandths Can tell a stone what to do.
So it’s two over one, and one on two, And a through to bind the pair, And cover the joint where the water runs, And the wall will still be there.
The Lonks came down off Harrop Edge To see how the work went on, And the dog lay down in the hearting heap Like a stone as were set down wrong.
Then there came a lass wi’ a map in her hand And her bicycle clips on yet, And she took a stone I’d passed by twice And she knew where it were to set.
It’s a long wall yet to the far gatepost, And the frost’ll be back, I know; But a wall that’s laid wi’ its joints all crossed Will stand when the builders go.
So it’s two over one, and one on two, And a through to bind the pair, And a stone as I’d have passed by twice Is the one that’s holding there.
— Dobcross, September 1953
Blow the Wind
The six o’clock had it, between the news from Westminster and rain for the North-west. I took the record down and held it, black and heavier than you’d think, and read the label twice, as if the label might have changed, then put it back. The rain kept on. The dog lay with his chin across my slipper, and the wind blew where it liked, and not for her.
— Dobcross, 8th October 1953
The Boggart o’ Harrop Edge
When t’ clag comes down on Harrop Edge And Dobcross lost below, There’s summat walks along the stones Where nob’dy ought to go.
Keep thi hands in thi pockets, lad, And keep to t’ wall and t’ stile, For a hand held out on Harrop Edge Can lead thee many a mile.
Owd Ezra, coming late fro’ t’ fair, Were feeling for the wall, When a hand slipped into his own And nob’dy there at all.
It led him gentle, led him slow, Three times around the moss, And morning found him on the tops Wi’ t’ ewes all looking cross.
My mother tells it by the fire And rakes the coals to flame; She says it’s led a many a man And never learned his name.
So keep thi hands in thi pockets, lad, And keep to t’ wall and t’ stile; But if it’s a hand tha knows, our lad, Tha can hold it a little while.
— Dobcross, 21st October 1953
The Record
I have it in its paper sleeve Beside the gramophone, A woman from the cotton towns Who sang the sea alone.
No band, no piano, nothing but The voice, and then the wait, The way a woman watches out Beside a harbour gate.
They said tonight that she was dead, At forty-one, in town; The man said it at six o’clock And put the paper down.
I took the record from its sleeve And held it to the light, And put it back. Some other time. Not tonight.