Wednesday 1 October 2014

Old Brock Should Not Stand Alone.

On the hill at Oridge, old ridge, slow rolling field land ploughed, harrowed, century tended; bean-fallowed blackened stalks, through a dusk darkened gap-in-the-hedge.

Sight lines for the hunter of the hunters; bring light to darkness’ edge, to scope the scopers, let them see good people take the high ground;  drive back the disease of aggression,  final solution, close-down the operation.

Killer Tory cant plays to the old ways but we’re a vermin you cannot chase, put that in reverse! We’re a moral nation, it’s you hide from us because you know that what you are doing is wrong.

Haunters of empty roads, eyes in lay-byes for the long night’s song; we are the family of the earth watchers, starlight people; standing by the gate, the orchard, the woods’ edge; web-watchful guardians of the boundary zone.

This is why we come! That old Brock should not stand alone. Bank-digger, Wood-walker, Bear-of-the-hole. Hedge-dog, Hole-noser, Old Wasp-nest-eater. Stripe-marten, Path-waddler, Worm-biter. Honey-lover, Claw foot, Old Bum-scratcher.

We talk, we walk. We will banish the badger catcher! Heavy blankets of purple & gold lower over the gathering; blue remembered Malvern fades from the hawthorn frame where the  robin sings;  each is assigned a station, a route, a watch-way into the country’s darkened heart.

Grinnells is where we start, at Okle Green leading to Golden Valley; shaded bungalow; horses moving in the dark close by in heavy breaths; a travellers’ cart; St. Mary’s steeple a splinter of alien light against the sky.

Bright wish-light meteors flit by, hard to see; night pulls away her blanket, shows us Milky Ways, Summer stars;  a roaring car plays brinkmanship: “Ba-ad-dg-ge-er-rs!” he shouts as he takes the bend at full speed.

No red light or need-men with guns, we patrol the lane-mazes of the night-land where traffic lights keep changing but no-one ever sees or stops; we find Red Marley Woods; sad-sweet smell of clear cut birches, her braids bleached pale by death & torch-light.

We drink earl-grey from a flask, talk through the night, keep warm, sleep in the car. We don’t see any badgers, but nor do we see the contract killers or their spies.  Dawn comes. Somewhere some badgers died perhaps, but