The Small God Of Parismony

The man shall say “We must cut back”
The woman shall draw near.
Then from the ooze of “What shall we do-s”
A household god shall appear .

We have conjured the small god of parsimony
His body is neat and folds into corners ,
His leathery skin creases at eyes -
That are rueful .Not sad ,but kindly and wise.
He is far from a cosmic deity in a metaphysical scheme,
He is an ancient god of the house.
He knows his way around the tool box

He smells of rolling tobacco, baked potatoes and rabbit stew
He wears sturdy clothes, which he mends
He dislikes “new”
When a tie is bought from a charity shop
He sighs with inner joy
When credit card approaches a computer
He shrieks and slaps his hands on the floor in alarm
He has strong gentle hands
With which to change plugs
And write the family legend,
Of a holiday at my father`s house in Dorset.

When the woman occasionally tells him to 'shoo ',
He accepts defeat
With a good grace

Outside in the night
The great ones fight
Calamity throws thunder and hails despair,
But the small god of parsimony keeps us safe
He sits on the roof and smiles at their noise
He says :
“ When death rumbled across from these skies
I was there , with them all
Making do.
And the strength which comes from small things
Will be more than a match , for you ”