7th February 2022
I have now been bramble-bashing on and off for many days; and, as I try to always have my pocket recorder with me, I have been gradually capturing flashes of inspiration…
Delighted when, after breakfast that Sunday morning,
His grand-daughter says she’ll come hedging.
So, though over-large, on with the really red hard hat which has a visor
To protect those eager eyes against spikes and barbs;
And into a snag-proof baggy navy boiler suit,
Plus wasp yellow bear-paw gauntlet gloves,
And her super-grippy new black Wellingtons:
She has outgrown, in both senses, the glary green frog-eyed ones.
His son approves the kit-out – then says, aside,
‘Dad, please guard against certain language:
You know you didn’t like how,
Working down those field sides with your father,
And me just as young,
I picked up various words.’
He’ll do his best, he promises, to try.
Barrowclatter off then, dry sky bright and calm,
With scythe and slash-hook, bow saw and loppers,
Grass rake, stone rake, two pairs of secateurs,
To start clearing the home paddock hedges
In the laboursome way –
Quite out of the economic reach of Modern Farming.
They begin by scrying the two long blades
To bluesilver Sheffield sharpness
With his beach-selected whetstone…
This girl already understands the respectful fellowship
Of field workers and such good edges:
Long known, for her, that sharp’s far safer than blunt.
They team well: his far reaching of hook
Best undercuts bramble stems and blackthorn runners;
By her, good-humoured tow teasing out
Of those shark barbed octopus branched vile vines,
Some easily ten yards long,
With patient backward hauling,
Despite the often triffidy lungelash of overstretched tendrils:
Always eventually she’ll breakback fold them onto the current bonfire heap
As if brittle electrical cables.
Otherwise, easier for her the crawl well under
To saw down any thorny branches they’ve agreed must go;
He, then, the crane man extricating tangly brash
While Young’Un sometimes stays beneath,
Crouched eyes closed and neck glove-covered
Against the dusty flyabout of spicule-sharp detritus.
All the while, his best he truly tries
To avoid the footsoldier’s language he usually finds essential;
For brambles deploy the dirtiest tactics –
And while you might overlook some opportunities to do them down,
Never will any one miss a single chance to pay you out.
…
After the child’s express demolition of lunchtime roast lamb
His wife, her Grandma, draws from the lower oven
A Queen of Puddings;
And straightaway young Stephanie shinily declares
(With apparent innocence)
‘That’s so appropriate, Gran; because all morning
Gramps and I have been tackling
King Brambles!’
© Christopher Jessop 2022
