The Altons

The Altons

“And whether Alton, not Manningford, it was

My memory could not decide, because

There was both Alton Barnes and Alton Priors.

All had their churches, graveyards, farms, and byres,

Lurking to one side up the paths and lanes”

-Edward Thomas, ‘Lob’ (1915)

 

The living folk I met had too few words:

Five beaters waving flags to scare the birds,

A girl who barely spoke, her mother

Laughing, but not really saying. The other

Was keyholder to the church. “Under that

Trapdoor, there’s a fallen stone, lying flat

And dusty. New Age sorts leave behind

Crystals – here’s one – we don’t exactly mind,

But it’s strange. And they hang ribbons

From the yew, for obscure reasons.

Edward Thomas? No, I didn’t know.

Was he from hereabouts? Did I show

You this Last Judgement, done in brass?”

 

Outside, it is raining. The sodden grass

Squelches underfoot, and the brook

Is swollen. I sloshed through it. Rooks

Called, and a woodpecker chipped away,

The wooden turnstiles slimed with rain.

There are two churches: Alton Priors

And Alton Barnes. A hedge of briars

And hazels divides the ground. A cobbled

Path joins them. Ghost-men have ambled

Down it, paused to see the Horse, looked

Up at Adam’s Grave, lit pipes, linked

Arms with ghost-women, and disappeared.

I walked there, weary, my eyes bleared

With wet. The landscape seemed to quiver.

 

When the old man’s speech was over

I went outside, and stood before the yew.

It was bigger than the church, needles strewn

On bare soil, and split in two right down

The trunk. Gaping holes had grown

In its bulwark. I glimpsed the window

Through the cleft, and from a shadow

He stepped out. “It passed my ear,

The shell. I fell, and woke up here,

Cold as a buried sarsen. These roots

Seemed to burrow through my boots.

At night, the owl, a silhouetted shape,

Calls me. There was no escape

After all. The barns, graveyards, byres,

Curving downs, barrows, nestled spires

Were churned up in a wide morass

Of mud, guns, decaying bones. Pass

Me some tobacco. You are kind. Life

Was mourning in itself. I didn’t love

My wife; there were others. At times

I preferred the lapwing’s cry to the arms

Of any lover. I walked out alone,

Watched, waited as you have done.”

 

I looked up where the whiff of smoke

Coiled among the branches. I spoke

Calmly to the wind, but he was gone.

The ground oozed. The rain pattered on.

 

Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.

 

Film and reading: www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSQXP9FF_fc

Done