in bramble havens
the fierce stares of blackbirds curse
blackberry brigands
The brambles on the moors are already heaving with fruit. I’m not that fussed about blackberries though, the pips always get stuck in my teeth. The blackbirds are welcome to them all.
in the heart of the
bramble briar, it’s always
dark full of secrets
the thicket immune
to the sun demolishing
the scowling cloud walls
a body concealed
her one true love scratched and bled
by welcoming thorns
photo’s I took on the moor
Three Haikus today, aren’t you lucky…. we partook in one of our normal walks and headed off to the Pond on Flitton Moor. On the edge of it is quite a dense patch of thick briar, bristling with thorny bramble as well as other tough hardy plants. It’s dark and sheltered there, whatever the weather. It oozes night even when the sun is in full roar. It’s a shady spot, dank and damp. Almost sinister.
It reminded me of an old folk song, a murder ballad. It has three names (Bruton Town, The Merchant’s Daughter and The Bramble Briar) and variations on the lyrics, but I think my favourite is by Martin Simpson (I can’t find it on youtube, but here it is on Spotify).
It is such a sad tale, a girl falls in love with one of her father’s servants, her brothers then secretly murder him as they feel him not good enough for her. They dump his body in a ditch filled with brambles, but his ghost visits her and she sets out and finds his body and the truth. Upon discovering him, the grief stricken girl goes back and meets her brothers “stand off, stand off! you bloody butchers!” but it seems from the lyrics she will ultimately kill herself too, in her grief. “My love and I, you have both slain”.
So next time someone writes off folk music, think of the murder ballads, they are dark, bloody, graphic and tragic.
The Bramble Briar has a powerful narrative, it’s tragic and has no happy ending, it’s not fair. Sometimes life is like that.
The Bramble Briar (traditional, from Martin Simpson’s version)
In Bruton town there lived a farmer,
Who had two sons and a daughter dear.
By day and night they were contriving
To fill their parents' heart with fear.
He told his secrets to no other,
Unto his brother this he said
'I think our servant courts our sister.
I think they has a great mind to wed.
I'll put an end to all their courtship.
I'll send him silent to his grave.'
They asked him to go out a-hunting,
Without any fear or strife,
And these two bold and wicked villains,
They took away this young man's life.
And in the ditch there was no water,
Where only bush and briars grew.
They could not hide the blood of slaughter,
So in the ditch his body they threw.
When they returned home from hunting,
She's asking for her servant-man.
"I ask because I see you whisper,
Brothers tell me if you can."
"O sister, sister, you do offend me,
Because you so examine me.
We've lost him where we've been a-hunting.
No more of him we could not see."
As she lay dreaming on her pillow,
She thought she saw her heart's delight;
By her bed side as she lay weeping,
He was dressed all in his bloody coat.
"Don't weep for me, my dearest jewel,
Don't weep for me nor care nor pine,
For your two brothers killed me cruel-
In such a place you may me find."
She early rose the very next morning,
With a heavy sigh and a bitter groan,
The only love that she admired,
She found in the ditch where he was thrown.
The blood upon his lips was drying.
Her tears were salt as any brine.
She sometimes kissed him, sometimes crying:
'Here lies the dearest friend of mine.'
Three days and nights she did sit by him,
'Till her poor heart was filled with woe,
And cruel hunger crept upon her,
And home she was obliged to go.
Sister, sister, why do you whisper,
And won't you tell me where you've been?
Stand off! Stand off, you bloody butchers!
My love and I, you have both slain.
All seems still bar the
skittish skaters skirmishing
the surface ripples
---
the sound of people
muffled and lost in tall grass
shredded by the wild
entangling brambles
impenetrable thorn quilt
diminishing path
Not one, not two, but three haikus today. Two of them are a pair, one, the pond skater one, was originally meant to be stand alone, but if you read all three together, they complement each other and transition well, much like a walker leaving the relative peace of the pond and diving into the overgrown path to be torn by thorns and brambles.
So… The sun was threatening an appearance so I decided I’d go for a walk, I watched the pond skaters duelling on the surface of the big moor pond for a while, they would fly at each other, over the meniscus of the pond, wheeling elegantly and racing off in another direction to see off another adversary, they were all dancing, protecting the unmarked boundaries of their territory. It had been raining all day. D is away in Ireland, she would have been proud of me, as I listened intently. I heard the distinctive song of Chiff-Chaff and a Yellowhammer. Blackbirds and Wrens, their volume belying their tiny size. I crossed the stone bridge over the Flit, the water was running faster than normal, understandably due to the rain. It cascaded towards the faraway North sea, ultimately this little river would flow into the Ivel, then the Great Ouse then out into the flats of the Wash.
I walked the first moor, then thought I would tackle the second. Not via the main route, but by the little path, it was Sunday afternoon, which meant dog walkers. I’m normally personable, but I didn’t want to see anyone today. So I took the little path as hardly anyone bothers with it and the bird watching is better. I walked round the edge of the field of juvenile Alders, still stick thin but very tall, twice, sometimes three times taller than me. Even the grass was almost as tall as me. it should have given me fair warning. The path got more and more difficult to track, the wild had been reclaiming it. No one had battled through the thicket to clear it. It truly was a deer path now, no human had walked it in weeks it seemed. Back in March it was clear enough to run through it. But now, there were points I had to push through, through thistle and bramble. Nettles stung me. Thorns cut me. Snails ended up in my hair, passengers from the damp dark foliage.
I was lost. I’d lost the path. But I wasn’t phased. I was happy. There was a serenity in that. I tramped onwards, using one of the tributaries of the Flit as a marker to my right. I used my watch compass and having some idea of my position, negotiated myself out. I saw red brick between the trees, that meant civilisation. But I enjoyed my time in the grasslands. Getting lost when you are heading nowhere in particular has its own sweet reward.
Some photos from my adventure.
The Pond, Pond Skaters battle here.
Some thorny thistles blocking my path. Note they are around seven feet tall.
This used to be the path, now it’s a seething mass of impenetrable pain!
