Michael Hutchinson
A Beech Coppice Near Frith
Scattered among the beech coppice, some narrow mounds
linger, salted and peppered with chalk and flint.
What army rests here, not feeling the present chill
in the quiet wind? Who mourned men, raised cairns?
‘No,’ calls a crow, ‘here no men died. In our grandfathers’ day,
a great gale fought all night with the high giants.
They, in noise and fear, tried beating down their enemy,
that black-winged chariot, with branches still leaf-burdened.
Out of time, head-length they fell, some tugging down
their neighbours. We lost our nests. What you mistake
for barrows, are root-balls, wrenched edge on, then weathered
with twenty more Octobers, all wood decayed.’
Page(s) 51
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