THE STANGHOW ROAD

No more than a road to somewhere else
is the road out of Stanghow
since they corsetted the hedgerow
bobbed its edges and drew it
in between white lines.

Once it was secret.
Then we took our basins, infant-size baskets
and the milk-can with a handle.
We fetched granddad’s walking stick
from the narrow wedge of dark
under the stairs and covered all the arms
with sleeves
and gave them all a Kit-Kat
so they wouldn’t eat so many brambles.

We criss-crossed the Stanghow Road then
to pick bigger blackberries
on the other side. Hedgerows smelt
of sun on Queen Anne’s Lace
and Rose Bay Willowherb was tall enough
for losing grandma at brambling time.

The pies were not all that.
Bramble jelly splashed and stained
and wouldn’t set but that was when
the Stanghow Road
belonged one day each year to us.

Pat Brown