Saxlingham, old village, stone houses,
near the sea.
We spent a month in the summer,
We laughed, and adventured, walked and walked.
Saw “Holt 5 miles” it seemed on every wooden sign.
Our first adventure finding the town of Holt,
a family amusement for always afterward.
A cloudy Sunday afternoon,
we walked fields yellow with rape,
as far as we could see.
The children stopped, pointed in the hedge,
the remains of a duck hung upside down,
neck stretched among the tangle of wire and branch.
We thought we could see its last agony.
We quickly turned the corner,
getting away from there.
Onto a wide cart path that would take us back to the road.
But everywhere we looked, there they were,
in the hedges, stretched and strung in the trees.
But mostly hung among the fences.
Foxes and rats, owls and crows, many others.
With the same look on faces,
in stages of disintegration,
that to us, child and adult, said “I sacrifice.”
Later, with tea and scones by the fire,
curtains drawn tight,
we questioned and guessed about what we had seen.
Felt time stir, ancient spirits beguiled.
Finally thankful,
to go to bed, hear the rain on the roof,
feel safe under old, borrowed linens.
Bless the animals on the fence.
A Thorley Poet 