We knew the history of the area, of course; <br />reckoning that with a Heritage Site <br />just over the hill <br />planning permits would be hard to get <br />and the rolling landscape, and our own prized view, <br />would stay that way. <br /> <br />Clearing the ditch beyond the orchard, <br />by the line of old trees, <br />I found it. <br />A musket. <br />still loaded (I realised later, cleaning it up) <br />and a scrap of disintegrating coloured cloth <br />still with a button on it. <br /> <br />A button. <br /> <br />It was the button <br />that put paid to my former life: <br />as if with the harsh scrape of iron cartwheel on stony track, <br />the past had arrived; <br />stolen the present from our comfortable grasp, <br />with a cartload of heavy, worn, <br />war-weary baggage, <br />and taken up residence in our front parlour <br />with its proudly sourced 'folk furniture' <br />that now looked like imposters in hiding. <br /> <br />It was when I drove into our small town next day <br />and the faces of the locals whom I thought I knew so well <br />looked at me with eyes that seemed to own <br />clothes heavy with history <br />and fierce division <br />that I knew that the past had claimed us <br />and that our lives would never quite be ours again <br /> <br />And that we must discover, not war but human pride <br />under the no longer picturesque <br />landscape <br />which we can no longer <br />pretend to own.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0118-wyeth-county/
