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Burnt
Heather
Bare
earth revealed, charred bones contorted and
brittle. The old gives to the new in a sacrifice
of release and the charnel grounds of bodies
left out - skeletons drying, casting no shadow
of protection into the birthing of young shoots
of delicate heather green, once again attracting
grouse to feed chicks and sheep to fertilise the
land into tomorrow’s landscape.
Such
is the good husbandry of the soil. Flocks to
market, herds to slaughter, birds to the gun,
each drawing a weary sigh once again after
the familiar pride of breed, quality of product
and satisfaction of harvest home are felt. But
the fields are empty, sheds left with last
strewn hay for the morning feed, and guns laid
aside until next year. Silence is the fallow of
the farmer’s cycle, when burning the heather
aligns him to his own bones returning to earth.
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