I wrote this as a response poem to my own attack on England's cultural failings in "Back To Blighty" - the walk was from Pleasley Pit to Hardwick Hall last August.
Heritage Walk
England, when your sky clears
and the warm August sun melts our sorrow
there is nowhere so beautiful.
To take a walk and be reminded
of your careless elegance;
where the constant duality of your heritage
is laid bare.
Opening where miners once plied their trade
Energy expended and conveyed
upwards and outwards;
now no signs remain underfoot
of that feverish endeavour.
Just the crunch of shoe on gravel
and clip and clop of iron hoof.
To the path once laid with rail and sleeper
engine hauling, dark cargo, clanging,
steam blowing through cutting and
trailing along high embankment;
now replete with cyclists and walkers, riders,
hounds and owners of different sizes.
A flurry of hellos and good mornings,
or is it afternoon? Smiles abounding
in the rarest of clement days
where the black dog sniffs,
is called, and runs with lolling tongue
flailing in its wake.
The country lane, winding, quiet with
occasional unwelcome interruption
of four wheel drive or disorientated hatchback;
Blackberries, teasing but not ready
for plucking - two weeks or maybe less
for the plump flesh to be ours.
In the cooling arms of the woodland path
where the sunlight probes the thick canopy
and casts dappled light onto dusty forest floor.
Flickering dart of Cabbage White,
lazy drunken weave of bumble bee;
hornet hovering as if observing
the orange fungus, splattered like paint
on the thick fallen branch;
leaves, roots, twigs, and stones
distract us from the impending neatness
of Bess's Vanity.
Stepping through the pastel blue gate;
manicured lawns are legally trespassed
by those who once
would only be permitted there
as workers.
Families play - small bat, small stumps;
small boy, long run-up; releases the ball
but without the required accuracy;
Picnics, ice-creams under the eye of the mighty hall,
its glassed walls rising as rose the engine house
less than three miles distant.
Yet these two places that are so different
are so intrinsically woven into
each others and England's fabric;
We, the commoners, have them in common;
we hold them in our English heart and embrace,
along with them, our contrary heritage.
Oh England, if only on every day
could your warmth so melt our sorrow.
Tim Fellows August 2017
