Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

The birds were dipping over the valley, wings humming, feathers outspread to hold the breeze. They hid amongst the hedgerows and alighted on the telegraph wires, they cleared the trees and flew onwards and away. And then, like a sudden burst of joy, they would appear again: a swooping flock of airborne creatures, turning in unison, diving through the air and startling the calm.

To walk further up the valley and reach the top of one of the steeply sloping sides was almost like matching the winging height of the birds. One could look down upon the curving land and see the dark heavy heads of the trees, the lushness of the grass and the tides which swept across the fields of barley. Sitting up there alone he could feel at one with the world, thought Mr Graham. It afforded him a moment to absorb the quiet of the landscape and, if he sat for long enough, he could almost feel the plants growing as they drew up the moisture from deep within the soil and unfolded leaf upon leaf under the weight of sunshine.. Coming here, he observed, put everything in perspective. He might feel his seventy years like a stone around his neck, but to the oaks down below such a span of time did not even take them to maturity. The ones he could see now might easily be two hundred years old and, thought Mr Graham as he considered the sagging, freckled skin on the back of his hand, the passing seasons had hardly affected them. Each spring new buds would break from old branches and before long a canopy of tender, transparent green would shade the boughs. A continual rebirth despite the advancing years. It should have come as a comfort, though, that however time affected you, age did have its compensations. It provided experience and gave you space to find the knack of living.. And yet, if Mr Graham were honest with himself, he still found life disturbing. The problems might have changed but his inability to master the skill in dealing with them and maintain a steady, balanced centre was the same. Even when he considered circumstances of years ago, he felt the same confusions over them as then. Anna for instance. He had fallen in love with her a long time ago. She had not been exactly beautiful but her face had often captivated him when it was set alight with an inner enthusiasm. It had been her spirit and mind that had fascinated and appealed to him, and his adoration of her had trapped him in an ever descending spiral of helplessness. She was arrogant, Mr Graham had not been too blind to see that, yet despite his youth he had also perceived the kindness within her. A vulnerable humanity which showed itself in the sadness of the line of her mouth. Why was it that the kind people of the world seemed to be secretly sad as well? There were those who had a cheerfulness that was like a clear pool. You could see down to the very bottom of their hearts and discover with disappointment how shallow their perceptions were. They were kind without understanding, compassionate without interest. And still others whose smiles were like a river whose source deep, deep inside was a spring of grief. To know them was to uncover an indestructible bond that linked soul to soul. But what caused the sadness and was it at the very root of their existence, the spark which initiated every moment within their hearts?

‘What I can’t understand, said Mr Graham out loud, his voice caught by the breeze and carried down the hillside, ‘is whether this world is a happy one dipped in tragedy or whether it is a tragedy with joy dredged over it like icing sugar upon a cake.’

To have the centre of his life tell him that his affection could not be returned had convinced him all those years ago that the world had a core of grief. The sense of despair had rendered him almost incapable of day to day living. To continue, to battle through the desolation, he had had to take heed of Anna’s words and accept them as true. She had told him that he, in his turn, would find that some people would become more fond of him than he could be of them. When that happened he would realise that it was not of such earth-shattering importance. By pretending that his unhappiness did not exist he had been able to take hold of life again until forgetfulness had soothed the wound. His zest for living had returned and the woman he had finally married had had a quiet gentleness which had allowed him years of contentment. It was true that she had not possessed the same arresting personality or astringency of spirit but her subdued strength had been a comfort to him. He had told himself many a time that he was a very happy man and he had tried, after the death of his wife, to follow her advice and not sink into introspection. Yet when he delved back into ignored memories the pain conjured itself up out of the past with eclipsing vividness. After all this time he should have been able to cope with sorrows and heartaches. Not that he fell in love these days. It was more likely that his disappointment came in the form of finding that carrot-fly had devastated his carefully tended crop. He was ashamed that he felt such a stab of hurt when he discovered that the amber roots which had been swelling secretly beneath the ground were riddled with the holes of tunnelling larvae. Surely at his age he should have arrived at a plateau of stoicism. Anna in her vanity had had a confidence in her handling of life that he had still to find. Her assured comments had even pushed their way into the present for Mr Graham now found himself having to fend off unwanted attentions as she had done. Mrs Lamb, a breathless cheerful woman who listened for as little as was necessary and talked for as long as possible, hungered after Mr Graham. She tended to her frail husband out of absent-minded duty and appeared unaffected by his impending death. She was always glad to corner Mr Graham and chat to him interminably whilst he merely nodded and agreed. Mrs Lamb was never lost for things to do - her days were filled to the brim. But what struck him was not so much the amount of activity but the blind faith of motivation. She never doubted that each appointment to be made, each errand to be run, each plan to be carried out did have a worth to justify itself. So often Mr Graham had begun something only to find momentum ebbing away like a malicious tide. It was as if there were a screen before him through which he could push his hand. A screen that hid the fact that anything anyone could do in the world was pointless. Through the gaping hole he could see nothing, no value, no worth, no meaning. Desire and ambition seemed like the games of a child and he stood back and observed everyone playing, aware that in their absorption they did not even notice that he was not taking part. Mr Graham never stopped hoping that he had misinterpreted the darkness; maybe in the emptiness beyond the screen there was something which shone and was there if you searched hard enough. It required less courage, though, to turn away and pretend he had not seen. After all, there was so much to distract him. Mrs Lamb smothered him with her friendship on every occasion that they met. In fact, he almost believed that she contrived some of their meetings just to create an opportunity to try and win him over. Mr Graham always made a point of asking after Mr Lamb for he felt sure that it was only this invalid’s precarious life that was the dam against Mrs Lamb’s affections. For one thing, she was an insatiable meat-eater. Mr Graham was a vegetarian, and had been ever since his wife had died. Left on his own he had had to look after himself, and up to a point the new skills he had needed to acquire were a novelty. However, having to handle meat in its raw, uncooked state had dissuaded him permanently from ever eating it again. Whilst his wife had been alive he had been insulated from the discomfort of the truth. He had been protected from the clammy skins of plucked chickens and their slimy sinews; the unnerving strength which held the apparently delicate tissues together; the crack of the joints as they were pulled from their sockets and the perfect white shininess of the cartilage which covered the ends of the bones; the watery blood which oozed from slabs of beef and the mirror-like, soft surface of offal; the cold, uncompromising heaviness of dead flesh.

Mr Graham got to his feet and noted the vague aches that he took for granted now. He pushed his fingers through his whitened hair and trod lightly through the grass, along the ridge and down the slope which led to a stile and a narrow chalk and flint path. If he followed its bending route, shaded by over-hanging trees, he would reach the wood: a place of cool, dense shadows where raindrops of sunlight trickled down from above. He was nearing the end of the path and the first tall oaks had come into view when, from behind him, he detected a rustling and, as he turned round, a movement through the undergrowth. He halted and tried to focus his eyes on the place. There were often blackbirds, which hopped over the dry leaves, but this was much larger. He paused and deciphered the moving shape as a hare. There was a tension in its movements which made him look down the path he had come to see what danger it had sensed. He was aware of himself becoming still and concentrating as he had never done before. Suddenly his whole being was charged with an unknown urgency. From around a curve in the path, a pale grey dog, coat shining like raw liver, sprang forward. Feet pounding among the clouds of chalk, breath pummelling the air, claws scoring the hardened ground, it streaked into the undergrowth after the hare. It was the Weimaraner of Mrs Lamb; a dog which held little respect for its mistress. Mr Graham could barely move one step in the time the dog took to run down the hare. In horror he watched as the grey snout pushed its way out on to the path, the heavy, flopping body of the hare clamped in its jaws. He could just make out a small squeaking, a frightened call in the sunshine - the animal was still alive. He stood rooted to the ground, staring at the pink-rimmed eyes of the dog. They were bright and hard and alert. Mr Graham knew he could not walk towards the dog for it was sure to run off, carrying the hare with it. The only chance he had was in the power of his voice.

The warmth of summer drained away leaving just the dog, the hare and the man. Their existence had become so acute that all else was shut out; every other sound and movement was leached from the day.

‘Drop’ ordered the old man. He prayed the dog did not detect the desperation in his voice and wished fervently that the commandment carried more than merely the weight of his tired soul. His anxiety proved unfounded for the animal’s attention was transfixed. Its pink eyes stared unwaveringly into his.

‘Drop!’ demanded the man again. The dog lowered its head, laid the hare on the ground and backed away from it - its gaze was still held fast. The old man, immobile and impenetrable, kept the dog at bay with a mesmeric look. He didn’t dare let his eyes wander from the dog for fear that the spell would be broken.. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the hare, silent now. It was moving, pushing itself with one back foot, its eyes closed, towards the edge of the path and the shelter of the undergrowth. There was something chilling about its steady, unrelenting progress. Something alarming about the unprotesting determination to get to its sanctuary despite a broken spine which paralysed most of its body.

‘Benjie!’ Mrs Lamb’s shrill voice rang out. The Weimaraner automatically wanted to disobey and instantly bolted past Mr Graham and into the wood beyond, leaving the hare behind.

There was not much time. He pulled back the foliage and lifted up the hare. There were no traces of blood and the bleating had begun once more, although more faintly. He wondered what pain was running through the submissive body and how close it was to death, and as the squealing became quieter and yet more insistent his eye fell upon a large flint. He could reach it without any effort and as he felt the solidity of rock beneath his fingers his heart almost stopped.

‘Benjie! Come here!’ shouted out Mrs Lamb, her call masking the hare’s whimpering. Mr Graham held the flint above the hare’s head and felt the weight straining his old muscles. He hesitated momentarily, distracted by the singing of birds as they flew in amongst the branches above him. Hidden by the restless leaves they clung to the twigs and watched. The hare, its eyes tight shut, bleated, and the flint came down.

It was as if each and every tone and hue of the day had become heightened, concentrated into stabs of colour. Mr Graham saw the purple blue of sky, the white chalk path and the dark drops of blood splattering the stones. He could feel the living sap within the trees as he felt his own heartbeat and sense the voices of the birds rising in a tumult of song. He cast aside the flint and breathed in the warm air.

Then he took the corpse in his large, worn hands and laid it in a hollow halfway up the bank that bordered one side of the path. With a handful of grasses, tugged out by the roots, he covered over the inert form and then stole down to the path, pushed his way past the low branches and straggling rosehips and out into the field on the other side. From there, with ever-quickening strides, he walked back towards the town.

At the stile under the horse-chestnuts he rested, his breath having become short with the hurry of his escape. He leant in the shadow against the polished wood and gazed out into the brightness of the fields beyond. Drift upon drift of red poppies bobbed their glowing heads among the bleached grasses and burned their dazzling colour deep into his faded eyes. He did not know how long he stood there, the light and colour made him lose all sense of time, but it must have been some minutes for when he was finally disturbed he found his joints had stiffened.

‘Mr Graham!.’ He straightened up and turned around. After looking into the sunshine it was difficult to distinguish the figure moving towards hi m under the green shade of the chestnut trees. Silently he waited and then noticed with sharp recognition a limp form swinging from the strong grip of Mrs Lamb’s fleshy hand.

‘Lovely day for hunting!’ Mrs Lamb smiled. Mr Graham was undecided as to how to react and yet he did not question that he would have to lie. His hesitation in replying was only due to his wondering what sort of role to play. Under the guise of waiting for her to come within talking distance he snatched a few moments to think..

‘The farmer’s been out today with his gun then?’ Benjie pushed his sleek body past Mr Graham’s legs and looked up longingly at the dead animal.

‘Good heavens no! I haven’t been scavenging. Anyway, it hasn’t been shot at all.-’

‘Benjie killed it?’ asked Mr Graham, finding himself absently patting the dog’s flank..

‘Benjie would never have done this. Besides, its skull has been crushed, look, so it must have been done by a ...’

‘But Benjie’s a strong dog with powerful jaws, he might easily have done that.’

‘Not Benjie. Anyway, it was hidden in a hollow and covered up with grass. I was just coming round a bend in the path when I saw Benjie sniffing out something along the bank. When I went to investigate this is what I found.’

‘Perhaps it was another dog, then,’ said Mr Graham. He was aware of his desire to mask the truth welling up inside him.

‘A dog would never have covered over the body with grass. I came across a blood-stained rock as well, you know, so I think it must have been some boys. Children can be very cruel. They probably found it in the hollow with its legs caught up in the undergrowth or something and thought they were being grown-up in killing it.’ Mrs Lamb paused and held the wretched form aloft to examine it.. ‘It looks healthy but I’ll call in on the farmer to see what he says.’

She climbed up over the stile and stood silhouetted against the background of red poppies.

‘You’re very welcome to come and join us for dinner. My husband always has to rest after his meals so we could maybe have a chat when we’ve eaten - just the two of us.’ Her eyes met Mr Graham’s. ‘Oh dear, I forgot.. You don’t eat meat, do you?’

‘No,’ replied Mr Graham.

He noticed Benjie suddenly leaping through the stile. He was making for home, streaking ahead into the field and snaking in and out of the hedgerows. Mrs Lamb’s calls failed to persuade him to return and reluctantly she left Mr Graham and trudged into the distance. His eyes followed her and watched as she became smaller and smaller until she was the size of a single poppy petal and the hare couldn’t be seen at all.