Gerald Hampshire
Fender Fell
I search for the dying
Up Fender Fell,
The place people say
Is the road to Hell.
I follow barbed wire
Climb barren land,
With dogs at my heel
And tar close at hand.
Between yellow tussocks
Crows pick at bones
And fleeces, like rugs,
Drape the cold, grey stones.
Down in the hollow
The blowflies thrive,
Grubs hatched in wire wounds
Eat the sheep alive.
But I carry mercy
Called Stockholme tar.
I shout for the dogs
And reach for the jar.
On wide open flesh,
Scarlet and brown,
I slap on the tar,
Watch the white grubs drown.
And down in the valley
The church bells ring,
"Hail, The Good Shepherd,"
Thankful people sing.
Page(s) 38
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