Friday, January 4, 2013

As I contemplate the two enormous suitcases we have to get to Germany via various modes of transport I start to panic, so soothing  poetry to calm the thought of custom men and taxis spring to mind.
The other day we walked by the river, a river that had flooded and reached to the path at some stage, it lapped gently against the saturated banks as we slipped and slithered along the path.
So who do I choose? it must be Ted Hughes for his gloomy view and a reminder of the North York moors, the grouse butts that dot the moors..

Grouse-Butts by Ted Hughes

Where all the lines embrace and lie down,
Roofless hovels of turf, tapped by harebells,
Weather humbler.

In a world bare of men
They are soothing as ruins
Where the stones roam again free.

But inside each one, under sods, nests
Of spent cartridge-cases
Are acrid with life.
Those dead-looking fumaroles are forts.

Monkish cells, communal, strung-out, solitary,
The front line emplacements of a war nearly religious--
Dedicated to the worship
Of costly, beautiful guns.

A religion too arcane
For the grouse who grew up to trust their kingdom
And its practical landmarks.

Some of these grouse butts are beautifully constructed from stone with turf tops, I have written about them and photographed them, and the black grouse that scurry along the narrow heather lined small paths.  Hughes of course grasps the nettle, the senseless slaughter of an innocent creature to show what? prowess may be, don't know all I remember is seeing two young men wearing camouflage astride their camouflaged quad bikes with guns ready to hunt the unsuspecting grouse, the mind grapples with the image of small birds and large humans astride machines.....

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