AN ESSEX SKY
by Jonathan Howarth
There is a brook that runs between the trees
To thatched & groaning barns in lees,
Around the lake and to the fields
Which tumbles to the harvest yields.
The clock that chimes in flinty towers
Is still – competes no more with planes,
Or cars since now it's struck its final hour
Depart the quiet, the sure… the sane?
Oh still & unassuming land, oh butt of mirth
Of village pond… inviting church, of lowly inns,
Of cottages and Kings – now Saxon gravely
Laid in cold and undiscovered mud…
Come friendly concrete, surprise us once
And cover all with Habitat and B&Q;
With cul de sac & dainty close
In vindication – JCB!
The Corridor sweeps on, entombing all
With Heritage New Life, tranquil no more
Surrendered to the fat & fulsome rich –
Lord Harvester of Stansted might be apt!
Oozing into innocent esteem, dashing Hopes
Of sweet routine – retirement by the stream?
Is Daisy Warwick's ghost yet there? At
Easton? Or will deer yet run amok at Hatfield?
Forest of my youth (the 7.47 will be due shortly)
… Can Dunmow yet be reached, via the
Unwelcome Mess of Potage? Or is Canfield now –
A park for cars? Broxted once a dream?
A Take-Away?… no more! Presents a view
Enchanting to discover… can this be? Where
I cycled, rode my pony… searched for frogs –
Spawn in these haunts… the old familiar
Sense of Place. Your moated farm, your row
Of cotts in Bambers where once old George
Or Seth, sat out to take a jug of ale…
Hoovering the evening sun whilst forges –
Heaved with life & iron… beaten, fashioned
For a grate… or shoe to horse or ageing wheel…
Some stakes made up by Joe
In timeless rescue… loving hands…
That seized the hammer, anvil too…
And wrought a legend that we know –
A tractor throbbing still to life,
Machine yet small but innocent
Against the brutal Mover of the Earth.
Our Earth; old carts, old tales, old hours,
Old days gone like that dream that steals
The silent hours; I see the rooks within
The trees… swaying in the bare fingered
Magic of the branches… & nests, bulging
In the wind like sailor's hammocks…
Dancing into the watery sunset…
Gone. Yet still our land… each plant
Each bush, each fish or fowl… or bird –
Each of everything remains. Locked away
Within the mystery of the fragile past.
They'll take your house, they'll take your
Home & wrap it in an offered tear
Yet like Judas they'll be no recompense?
Just thirty pieces… of runway.
Regret? Whence cleft apart the heart we know?
Subsidy is all to oily men?… familiar in
The ways of Worlds beyond the One you Love;
Theirs is the Kingdom… the Power… the All!
The harpie at her E mac slaves away –
Conspiring to kill us once for all… 'unfortunate
It must be… Come the Cities of the Skies
And Let us Fly… Stand by me. Embrace their
Power. For this is the New Religion' –
Mass Exodus to here or there – we hope
To pay the Dane his geld… but he won't go
Away… he'll build oblivious… to the end.
So as one day you sit in the last feral field
Preserved twixt runway one and three… fight
The greed… to the final blade of grass or die,
As trampled flock.
You are the Last of Essex. The Last we
Know or Knew. What's planned is not for
You or Yours… It is a market's hellish,
Dream. Nightmare on Takeley Street!
There is no war – it is a vehicle for
Sunny climes? There is no war… no
Tunnels dug & yet We are Invaded?
Why? Who is appeased? Who is 'best pleased'?
As the saying goes… None… for none
Can win when madness strikes!
All this, … all this for nought
They fly… whilst on we 'live' under
This Essex Sky?
