In Memory of F. S. Murray
Misericord. The Misery Cord.
It was lettered on a wall.
I know that cord, how it’s tough to break
however hard you haul.
My cousin sharefarmed, and so got half:
half dignity, half hope, half income,
for his full work. To get a place
of his own took his whole lifetime.
Some pluck the misery chord from habit
or for luck, however they feel,
some to deceive, and some for the tune—
but sometimes it’s real.
Milking bails, flannel shirts, fried breakfasts,
these were our element,
and doubling on horses, and shouting Score!
at a dog yelping on a hot scent—
but an ambulance racing on our back road
is bad news for us all:
the house of community is about
to lose a plank from its wall.
Grief is nothing you can do, but do,
worst work for least reward,
pulling your heart out through your eyes
with tugs of the misery cord.
I looked at my cousin’s farm, where he’d just
built his family a house of their own,
and I looked down into Fred’s next house,
its clay walls of bluish maroon.
Just one man has broken the misery cord
and lived. He said once was enough.
A poem is an afterlife on earth:
Christ grant us the other half.