Thursday, 22 February 2018

A poem for my small volume 'A Rural 1950s Boyhood'


As a child,
I delved in ditches:
seeking weasels,
stoats, voles, rats,
probing dark holes
of cryptic creatures.
In wet weather,
wading in wellies,
on hot days,
breathing the crisp scents
of parched weeds.
Africa, Borneo,
both explored,
the Nile’s source found,
but my expeditions,
were deep in ditches.

I discovered
the dignity of ditches
is in charity:
havens for the hunted,
lanes for lower life,
succour to slake  thirst.
Trenches, troughs,
drains and dykes,
that form networks
etched into the earth,
providing passage
for prey
and predator,
and the curious child.

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