Otorge

The sun tattooed the chimney breast with dazzling light.

The clock ticked time as if there was no tomorrow.

She heard the cows bellowing and I had to check.

The morning choir was bird-light song singing sunrise;

The sun spread its skirting rays round the damp pastures.

Dew-wet cobwebs matted the stiff twinkling stubble.

The cart-way ruts ran with last night's rain down the slope

Into the bottom where worms drowned and ducks waddled.

How sure I walked the path and lane to the hill fields.

A fox floated on the banks of the Blackwater.

A kestrel hanging in the air let itself down

Level by level till it seized a green lizard.

Once in a lamplight sweep I saw a long-eared owl

Returning to the castle where young voices creaked.  

It flew legs behind when the mice began to run.

The castle wall returned my hoot in loud echo.

A willow copse sloped up the hill from the river

How sure I walked the banks to the busted castle.

Birds roused from their roost trees cut the air with long words.

A squirrel applied his fore-teeth to hazel nuts.

The cow-pond swelled from the full purling stream.

The solaced cows stood sipping, in the hotter hours.

And bats on the wing sipped surface insects at night.

Once flaxhole water seeped - left the fish belly up.

The old folk lit the dried-out rindless rushes dipped

in bacon-scum that burned brighter than wicked tallow.

How sure the stood boy who stole honey from the hives.

Season followed season, seeding to harvesting.

The pensile boughs of birch bared in an autumn drowse.

Beside the orchard where long codling apples grew

A busted cottage held bales of hay in its mouth.

Here, a keen north wind tumbled the treetops with snow.

Here, flowers-of-May blossoms kissed my face

Here, chill fog floated rime-frost spikes into my face.

Here, a clucky, feathers on end, flew in my face.

How sure I was the cycle would come round again.

Pigs waited lying relaxed on their straw-floored pen,

Taking turns in the wallow, waiting for slaughter.

On the dunghill beside the pigpen a trapped hind

Sprung her back legs and broke the neck of a beagle.

I walked the grassy path the old ones had bruised down.

Time has extinguished the path, for ghosts don’t tramp grass.

As if they’re not hers, the earth is hard on her brood. 

Lacking the heart of a hen, she devours her own.