Knock

Coming in after dark, He put down a fire. A dab hand at this by now, the flames quickly took hold and hearth soon glowed. Not a cold night but old habits and all.

From the sideboard, He took a bottle of whiskey and a glean, dry glass. He poured a measure and drank it.

He put the wireless on low so as not to wake the child. He took His seat by the fire to read the book. He opened to the bookmarked page and read a line or two before the thoughts of the day took Him away.

He thought of the meadow He had knocked with the scythe. He saw the grass lying now in the summer night -- a carpet of blades for the harvest. He looked forward to the turning, another day and night out under a clear sky and the day after He would build the haycocks.

But for now, grass lay vulnerable so he prayed for no rain. His phonecall to the Met had promised him a week of fine weather but He couldn't be certain.

He tried again with the book in His lap but the words wouldn't catch Him tonight. His mind wandered back a few years and a memory of a dance came unbidden. She had been with Him and they had enjoyed their night on the floor. They won a trophy for best couple in a competition they knew of not. She laughed on the way home that her man who had medals for arm wrestling and tug-of-war now had a trophy for ballroom dancing. He smiled but said nothing for He was concentrating on the road and never liked to drive at night. She lay her hand on His shoulder and squeezed -- her man.

He stood up from His chair by the fire and returned the book to the shelf. There'd be no reading tonight. He considered a second measure from the bottle but quickly dismissed the idea. He alone guarded His actions now so He needed to build a deeper resolve against easy slides back into older ways. He'd have tea instead.

He filled the smaller kettle with well-water and set it over the fire. The wireless played another dispatch from the desert. As the water boiled, He cut some bread and ate it. His back was sorer now than before -- His work in the fields coming in for late payment. The kettle boiled. He scalded the pot, spooned in some leaves and covered them with the hot water. He poured a drop of milk into a cup to colour his drink and allowed the tea to brew.

He knew He should be in bed by now but had no desire to lie in the dark.

He rolled a cigarette. He poured the tea and drank it. The wireless played the old march as the station closed for the night. He checked in on the child.

Back at the fire He had His rolled smoke. He considered the book again or maybe a second perusal of the day's paper for He might have missed something. He thought again of the fallen meadow. The grass lying in the dark, waiting for the sun to come and claim all to harvest.