Salt of the earth

I drop in, she hugs me, offers
five kinds of tea, finds biscuits.
Up close, her neck is a country mile
of sundrenched hills and valleys.
She is solidly fit, walks
to the Four Square. He: beer-keg belly,
ruined back. She shows me a poem
she wrote for him on one of their trips
to the beach. They’ve been a couple
since high school. The house
is a tidy hoard of years. Grandkids
in school holidays, the whole clan
at Christmas, but mostly just them,
their things. Rugby team. Money made
in auto electrics. He under cars; she
on the phone, the cashbooks. The living
room has a bar. In the kitchen, a teapot-
shaped clock (belonged to her dad),
three well-filled knife blocks.
So much room, you could dance.
She makes the dinner while he goes
for the milk, which means the pub.
She goes too, but only on Saturdays.
On Wednesday nights he’s out
at fire and rescue training
and she has her book club over.
On Thursday mornings she helps
at the village library. Her thing
for herself is genealogical research,
writing it up for family and friends.
And the national archives? I ask.
Oh no, she says. Too personal.

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Jackson, born in Cumbria, England, now lives in Aotearoa New Zealand after many years in Australia, where Recent Work Press published their fourth poetry collection, A coat of ashes, in 2019. Their poems, reviews, and articles are widely published. writerjackson.com.