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