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J. Brookes

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Good Afternoon

Nothing stirred in Longtown
that stifling August afternoon
but horseflies, as I crossed
the stile behind elm-shaded

castle walls, then waded
through cowparsley and corn
towards the track that climbed
up to The Land of Song. A dog

in a yard below fell slowly
out of sync with its own bark
by a second or so, skylarks
unreeled their endless spools

of speeded-up song, sheep enjoyed
three-second panic attacks
then forgot them, a dark pool
of ponies half a mile away

formed a nervous line and began
to move down it, as plantations
like green velvet antimacassars
draped over old leather sofas

rose in the west. At the top
I made a hat-peak with my hand
to look back at the golf balls
of some MOD tracking station

halfway across Herefordshire
and, further on, the Malverns
melting into the afternoon
as a group of ramblers panted past

coming from the youth hostel
at Capel-y-Ffin. ‘Good afternoon...’
they said eleven times, and I said
‘Yes...’ eleven times, and meant

each one, before pushing on
cairn by cairn along the red spine
of the mountain to Hay Bluff
and the long, moonlit path down.

Page(s) 18-19

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