Each weekend was a curst return
boot-filled, lifeless ditches,
each boy scolded for deep cuts
and rips off furrow-tripped meadows.
We ranged, untouchable, free,
across fallow farmland,
never knowing every acre was doomed.
The River Addle, our course of choice,
went first, piped and diverted.
Next came the laying of black lanes
for shot past trucks and cars –
killing machines, legally driven,
which then road-blocked our crossings.
Our wild life was inequally divided
by over-takings and lines of sped death,
cutting us off from the dark woods,
that far copse of unmanaged oak
which, before they lay the orbital road,
was our furthest-ever destination
on our stone-kicked roamings,
in squelch-squeezed Wellies.
We had read nature’s encyclopedia
within the oaks’ shadowy gloom –
the same woods where Dad
had me shoot all that moved.