Walking North

Above the ramparts of Iford Hill,

The sun dipped low in a green sky,

Rodmell Church lay between trees,

And up the valley a cold wind blew.

We walked apart. The children splashed

In chalky puddles by the river,

Sought our hands as we neared a wharf,

Leaning rusty on a near bend.

At once they ran ahead and hooted,

And stopped again with widened eyes,

For the wharf hooted, too, so they laughed,

Ran on, shouting our names.

The echo came quicker. Syllables

Struck sharp back like pebbles.

Our longer names were lost,

For clusters came muddy, confused.

Then the river suddenly boiled,

Saturated fields voided their water,

Pumping and rocking river bugs,

Breaking their quiet circles.

We walked on, watched lap-wings rising,

And a water-bird, black neck outstretched,

Arrowed the green earthworks

Hummocked on Mount Caburn.

Virginia no doubt watched such scenes,

Before she drowned, a life-time since,

When overhead the Luftwaffe

Arrowed northward, like that bird.

Since then the channel has been dredged,

The bent path straightened which she took

Over the rotting stile we climb

To pass the derelict works and wharf.

The works no longer spread white dust

Over this new-washed country.

(Asham House lay where from here,

Behind what new-washed trees?)

The children clamber down for ditchweed,

Retreat to grasp our hands again

When edgy bullocks in the field

Approach wedge-heads, wide-eyed.

The country green grows dark,

And from the westward down

The sun lights Caburn’s clouds.

We turn to face the dropping wind,

See what lay behind us, now before,

Smoke climbing over Southease,

Monk’s House and Rodmell Church

Rising dark and clear.

©Terry Hodgson2020