F a r m    H a n d

There they sit, so comfortable and rude. Nothing to say? Say nothing! I will say nothing. There is nothing to say. I'll see each of them dead in their turn when I see them again. A fine summer day -- I came here to this on a fine summer day! His friends! To sit with families of strangers for a strange goodbye. Why did I bother? He's dead now. Cold empty dead reposé within that elegant bronze bathtub for all eternity. It's not going to sink and Satan is not going to come, not going to reach up and with a grasp of some horrid great claw pull him down from a' fore my very eyes straight into hell.

I hear the voice, the precision and the music -- reaching back through time to Mercia. How many innocents could that link? How many rough worn hands defiled the chaste bodies of youth between here and Northumberland? Flowed those 89 years to here? Hopping over blast the craters of World War One, to the ships, the roads and rails, the people, the minutes - faces - seconds - hours all in one gambit path to this!

And should I pray? Could I pray! Not of him, never for him. Lyaeus end! Joy and peace, to drown and wash away the guilt for one christened within that deep wide tank. Before time, before hate, before fear had such form.
False, they are doited, no one notices -- they are elsewhere, but here! They are counting out his money, they are checking his cloth, dividing apportioning passing trinal -- mean, stupid, base you three! Your needs were your weakness -- was his strength -- his work served so well when we wanted what was useful.

Then where's my share? I deserve such a share! I will have it, my share! To squander and rid 'self of this his memories, his touch, his face; and another fine summer day¿

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