Remit

Remit

In the dust‑laden post‑office of Southbridge street,
I hand the cheque to a clerk who asks, “What’s the remittance, eh?”
His fingers trace the faded stamp—BACS, CHAPS, a sailor’s beat,
The pound sterling lifts its weight to travel across a foreign sea.

The banks line the street like soldiers, their windows all ajar,
Telephone rings, the ATM buzzes, the screen flickers a green glow;
I slip my folders in, the clerk nods, “Your remittance is on the way,
Your mother will receive the sum on the morrow, the tax returned.”

In the quiet of my kitchen the kettle sings, a copper‑clung kettle,
I think of the child who plays in the mud‑black stream, unnoticed;
A small band of workers swing in from the hill and stare,
Remitting the silence that shouts and the burden that they bear.

Later, by lamplight in the flat with the footpath to the lane,
I sit on a chair where a retired solicitor rests,
He places a hand on the parchment, and says without blame,

“Your grievances lie within this clause, your plight has found its hook.”
The legal oath, his blunt "remit," liberates your soul, the law’s entwine,

From the court's great hallow hall, its chamber of old stone,
It slices the old tax of guilt and wights the petty crown.

The word slips in and out – a river, a duty, a debt –
The post‑office, the solicitor, the heart that keeps the sum,
Remit, a motion that lifts the weight of a master’s debt,

And when it returns, the world becomes lighter, each thing – neat.

So while the pin on the cheque sits clear and damp, “Remit headed,”
I carry this mission through the neighborhoods, with the iron sky, –
A tribute to both the train of money and the dawn of relief,
Remit is a whisper, a pledge, a prayer that no one shall wreck.