I drive into the wind in border country
and quickly traverse names upon the map
I'd thought large towns, but find dwindled
to mere villages. Yet abbey, formal square,
broad streets and church and ancient bridge,
assert in elegant Georgian stone, the time
these towns had power and wealth.
On main but empty roads between the towns
a hamlet gains a dignity it would not have
where traffic noise drowns out the past.
I stop the car and step into the air.
The wind has dropped, the countryside lies still;
at the road's edge stands a long-grassed mound
I climb to enjoy the silent view.
It was then the pain and labouring breath
of ancient shouts of battle filled the air
from those who'd manned the vanished palisades.
And the angry native birds among the bushes
rose and twittered round the stranger
who'd claimed possession of this vacant hill.
The stranger, lacking knowledge, lacked a voice,
but felt the need to listen to this place,
to answer angry questions which were asked
by this green and echoing, far from empty, space.
©Terry Hodgson2024
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