Page 24 - Kol Bogrei Habonim - September 15

My Aliya Story - Eder Farm Revisited

Judith Yalon Fortus - November 2009

Come walk with me down Beckoning clear from Galilean mountains,

these Sussex lanes of an evening As a tribe that claims allegiance from its own,
To a place-and-time that sleep beneath my spell, Plucking at eager, all-responsive heartstrings,
Soon to awake as I lift my benign enchantment - Called the unbuilt, unborn, untilled, unsown:

And as we walk I have a tale to tell.
There's work to be done here, young ones, do not tarry,
For I wound and bound it round with tender tendrils, How long must we wait? the suppliants seemed to say.

Torn from the fragrant green forever tree, For even though foretold by the ancient writings,
Lest it be lost, quicksilvering through my fingers, Yet how shall we manifest, if you delay?
To sink in the quicksands of mere memory

The "just society" then was our trustful watchword,
See how the slowly gathering night Blueshirted stalwarts, children of Habonim.
Enfolds the field in a warm embrace Beguiled by the brave new world we believed
abuilding,
While shapes that loom in the lingering light
Fondly pursuing a wayward, elusive dream.
To the moon raise a gentle, bovine face.

But come and I'll show you the ones who were there
Now over the bridge and the path veers right
(Radiance suffusing each form and face),
Through the trees, from the house, an elusive gleam.
For these were the beautiful people who peopled
Here the white path ends; tread softly, please,
My magical time-and-place.
Come enter with me, into the dream.

***
There's her with her motherly apron,
The Eder Farm. We came there young and fervent,
All up to her elbows in flour;
All eager for a life of healthful toil.
She’s reigning queen of the Esse range
And who but we should pioneer the movement,
And supper'll be served in an hour.
That would return the Hebrews to the soil?
Him on a hayrick with sweat-soaked shirt,

Striking a pitchforked pose.
We came to learn to farm, to cook and launder,
Him with his dungarees smelling of dung
We argued, dreamed, philosophised and trained.
And a new-birthed calf with a twitchy nose.
The Prophets spoke of exiles all ingathered.
Her with her wickerwork basket
Did they mean us? O, was it foreordained?
Over her sun-browned arm,

A-scattering grain and a-gathering eggs
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