David Caddy on the Other Side of the
NO BURNING COTTAGES
Eight became six, six became four,
some men could not hack it anymore,
left early, took to dog racing, pigeons,
making bird tables, rearing pheasants,
cropped up in garages under apprentices,
in cheese factories, in garden centres.
A gradual absence, with their world
of signs and recognition dispersed
like husks. No great noise. No burning
cottages. Consent on the brink of sense.
Each year less rows of runner beans,
washing. Wildflowers altering the balance
of things, shifting feet, stones.
Some turning authority, duration
on its head, placing this against that,
and staying put, not listening
to the spaces between worlds.
Susceptibility taking them like magic.
© Copyright David Caddy 2002