warham fort
fresh morning blossom hangs lush over rusted fence
boots upward crunch northward - cooling sea -
a scraggled hedgrow wearing meadow flowers
obscures the ordered furrows of white shooted potato
and you rise rubber treaded
for now your shoulders' grown accustom to the weight
relish bouncing underslung tent
your feet keep time to the piccolo sporks
plastered brandied blisters
burst and drained
life is good
turning the map - to align with a distant church tower -
(by now you can read it to the foot
by rule of thumb)
you pick dried sweat from your eyelash
not quite sure if what you are looking at
is real
but it's undeniable
it's there
perfectly round, grassed double walls
- twenty - thirty feet high
rising out of the fields like a -
or a perfectly intact henge
but where are the cars
the picnics
the gift shop
the cream teas
the coach park
the blue plaque
the information board
the iceni reenactment society
the druids
the boudicca fetishists
the nets of footballs hanging by the walls' sign
the amateur historian in khaki shorts and sandals
the kids with plastic swords
the sound system pumping bass
the americans mis-pronouncing placenames
the preservationists
the archeologists - dinging it up
the americans wearing boudicca tartan
the japanese photographizing
the scorched remains of teenage bonfires
the wire litterbins
the litter
the young offenders picking up litter with spiked sticks
the dog shit
the dog owners saying 'he's firendly don't worry'
the smell of onions griddling
the licence to perform wedding services
the broken bottles with decaying budweiser labels
the postcards
the sign saying lands end 406 miles
the living history event
the living history event with nazis
the face painting
the genuine ancient briton beer
the locally produced all day breakfast
and that idiot going on about blood and land
two ravens circle
and you thought you remember
as you return to the lane
but forget
everything
as in the distance
the narrow guage railway to walsingham
toots it's whistle
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