Sally Evans

The Feast in the Barn

a) Past and Future

The farm welcomes us with sheepdogs.
We tumble out on the driveway
into the stable where candles
wait to be lit. Our host reaches
into his reservoir of legend
but his mind is on his woodland,

his newly laid-out woodland
over the hills where sheepdogs
follow, new oaks for a legend
of druids' groves, on the driveway
Scots pines for the reaches.
He'll plant them like small green candles.

Under the awaiting candles
his eyes see future woodland
wave on the hill. He reaches
out for his glass. The sheepdogs
mill outside in the driveway
as though they could scent the legend.

On his barn walls, in the legend
pictured under the candles,
the traveller reaches the driveway
from his trail in the ancient woodlands,
sure at his heels his sheepdogs,
safe in the farm he reaches,

and the feasting company reaches
its way into lasting legend
in the secret language of sheepdogs,
the light shed by the candles,
the past and future woodland.
Our host stands in the driveway.

He turns at the point in the driveway
where it runs uphill and reaches
the fence dividing the woodland
and all that it knows of legend
from the homestead of fires and candles
and ubiquitous sheepdogs.

Woodland surrounds the driveway.
Sheepdogs sleep in the reaches
of legend as he lights the candles.

b) Present

Inside the barn before supper
there was a gathering of ladies
of whom I was one. The kitchen
was the next room. Counting glasses
and plates, someone was singing.
We'll need half a bag of turnips,

potatoes, parsley, and for the turnips
butter and pepper. Then the supper
will run itself, almost. Singing
'Don't forget the haggis, ladies,'
our host brings in a box of glasses.
Many people throng the kitchen,

not all cooks. In the kitchen
pans of vegetables and turnips
boil. We spread cutlery and glasses
and cloths across the trestles. Supper
will be on time. Trust these ladies!
On the stove the kettle's singing.

Now the music, speech and singing
starts, and emptied from the kitchen,
partners, wives, dressed-up ladies
enjoy. Soon the only turnips
are the jokes told after supper.
Ha! The speaker's lost his glasses.

Water or whisky splashed in glasses
under the candles, the true singing
and music complements the supper.
Quick hands clear the kitchen.
Sheepdogs are fed, remaining turnips
left for the sheep. Well done, ladies!

Gents smoke in the driveway, ladies
peek into their looking glasses.
Trifle now replaces turnips.
Coffee. Songs and legend, singing
loud in stable, barn and kitchen.
In the woodlands, after supper

tired of turnips, feisty ladies,
slaves of supper, raise their glasses,
singing - this is not the kitchen!