The Angelus by Jean Francois Millet (1814-1875)

He stands by my side muttering his prayer, embarrassed by my presence.

‘Merci, Mon Dieu.’ He stutters the beginning of the prayer we rehearsed

this morning before the sun came up while we collected the sacks together.

We hope we’ve remembered the words Father Didier taught us last Sunday.

It’s been a hard morning digging the precious tubers, but we cannot stop

until we have taken the last barrow to the store house and covered them

with straw and earth. We can’t afford for them rot or freeze hard as stones

or else we’ll have precious little to sustain us through the Normandy winter.

Luc’s a strong man and works hard on the few acres we can afford to rent.

Our onions and garlic will soon be hanging to dry, si Dieu le veut, and I

have to start dusting down the pickling jars my mother gave us for luck.

Our first year of marriage has not been easy, but it’s good to work as one.

I tended the vegetables and cared for the chickens, we always have eggs

and the goat even has enough milk to make a little chevre for our bread.

I stand silent next to him, head bowed, and silently offer my own prayer.

If it’s answered, Luc’ll warm our bed tonight and plant his seed in my belly.

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• Public Domain
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