After Prime at the Alder Lane Hall 🔍

Just after the bell for Prime, in the beaten-earth yard behind our Alder Lane hall, I stirred yesterday’s embers beneath a blackened clay cooking pot. I broke oat bread into small beer, added a little onion, and set aside the least-stale piece for the child next door, whose mother has promised to help me turn the flax tomorrow. My fingers still smelled of woodsmoke as I carried linen to the hedge, where dew flashed on every thorn and geese complained beside the ditch. Before the sun climbed high, I counted our few clipped silver pennies twice and decided the blue wool ribbon at market must wait.

Near Vespers in the West Field Orchard 🔍

Near the bell for Vespers, in the little orchard beyond West Field, I held a wicker basket beneath a low apple branch while my neighbor shook the leaves above me. Three red apples dropped into my palms, cool and hard, and one struck the basket with a hollow knock that made us both laugh. On the walk home, the dusty lane smelled of crushed mint and horse dung, and the lowering sun shone through my faded russet sleeves. I traded one apple for a pinch of salt at a cottage door, then saved the brightest fruit for tomorrow’s shared flax work.