nthposition online magazine

Snapshots on common land


[ poetry - february 11 ]

In black and white
my parents packed the tartan rug,
the boiled eggs,
Nana in her good tweed skirt,
son and daughter, bat and ball
for the annual
Prees Heath picnic.

In colour
when I learned to drive
on roads we used
for safe reversing
with paving cracked and
hangars empty,
the shrunken heathland
kept its secrets
beside the pin-straight
Roman road.

Now in my dreams
I close my eyes to
drone of bees,
scent of heather,
hear the distant
wartime planes dropping bombs
on butterflies
amid the ghosts of lonely boys
in training
for the trenches.