Fragment
Written by
Hauling into Haslingden,
Kicking sixty over The Grane,
I’m singing along to the radio,
He’s explaining what’s in the frame.
Sheep like rocks on the hillside,
The last leaves still turning flame,
A flock of pigeons beat the sky –
“Oh look!” –
A kestrel hangs against the sun
The world entire in its eye.
The road swings round
To show the bodies laid out
in the grass.
Rubies glint in the sun
Scattered in the glass.
Blue light streaks across white faces.
We creep around to pass.
The sun hangs in the burning sky –
“…don’t look….”
The kestrel screams, then stoops,
The prey entire in its eye.
written Nov ’99 – April ’00
Haslingden is a small town in Lancashire, NW England; the Grane is a road running over the nearby moors. B and me used to drive over the Grane from Preston every weekend to stand a market stall in Ramsbottom. It was a twisty, narrow road, and we would come across the evidence of an accident nearly every time we went over it.