My eye was attracted to it by its simple beauty and obvious antiquity.
Although it was written in French and was clearly of a religious nature, I resolved to purchase it.
On examining it more closely, I discovered an inscription that indicated that the book had been awarded to one John W. Le Huray in March 1894 as a Sunday School prize or Prix De Merite.
My pleasure at finding this lovely old book quickly turned to amazement when I studied it more carefully and discovered that the Sunday School young John had attended was none other than the Ecole Wesleyenne du Dimanche in the Parish of St Pierre-du-Bois.
This particular Wesleyan Sunday School was affiliated to the Methodist Chapel, Old Sion, also situated in St Pierre-du-Bois.
The latter building was de-consecrated some years ago and later became luxury apartments, one of which was my home for over a decade.
During my residence there I wrote this poem.
GARDEN DIARY
Old Sion Chapel wall is high:
the ladder feels precarious.
Up here, I combat vertigo,
fix nesting boxes to hard stone
with fingers, winter-wounded-cold,
claw hammer, last year’s rusty nails.
Below, the bird-table is strung
with nuts in cages, fat-balls, seeds.
The Parish beech trees all seem dead,
my garden tools are stained with rust.
Wood-smoke, soft dew, birdsong, light,
this mellow January day,
awake my hibernating heart
as, high above, jet-trails on blue
chalk out simple geometry.
The hours hang in the chill air.
Damp earth within the Chapel yard
smells like dank cemetery soil
that sucks away without return.
Today I knelt to plant small bulbs,
each squat shape pressed into the loam
like buttons on a telephone:
their planting, one long number dialled.
Down wires of weeks, green life will hum,
till springtime, when these mended hands
may pluck, from softly yielding ground,
bright blooms like syllables of sound.
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