Since swapping blogs I’ve lost all my previous posts, which didn’t bother me at all as most of them were bollocks. But then I remembered something I had posted which I did want to retrieve; a couple of years ago, whilst living in Dublin, I wrote a poem – the first since school. I thought it was quite good and got attached to it in a sad sort of way (I’ve not even tried to write any more since.) Anyway, I thought I’d lost it forever, but trawling through an old computer I found it. So, for posterity, here it is again:
The Low Way
Through field, meadow, copse and coppiced wood;
Hidden by pleached hedgerow, ditch and oak,
The droveways, hollow ways and sunken lanes
Run to and from no-where;
Dead, dried rivers divorced from the sea.
Scars born from their aboriginal scarring
Are scarred by tribal Celtic, Belgic, Wealh;
Whipped by purple-dyed rough Roman wool;
By Frisian, Dane and Norman.
Lonely lanes beyond the lea.
Old, forgotten Wicherdis.
Past tun and burgh and boundried Ferding,
Hushed by hazel, ash, fern and blackthorn.
Secret black ditches carve and camber
The ancient Hundreds:
Joining lines of history.
As the sap rises, the trackway falls
Away from sight into Hadian forgetfulness.
The Low Way, The Furzeway, the Green Lanes
Are green lines of residual wish-ways.
Isophenes of ancient memory.