8/9/2019 I Sing the Smith

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I Sing the Smith

I sing the Smith in spring, when the swallow on the wingSwoops at insects high above the stones,And the fields of greening wheat, and the cowslips at my feetMark the ancient walks and hallowed bones.The scroll-tight beech tips burst, and Bearas done her worst,Where the megaliths stand pitted by the rain,As the throstle winds his note it grows rich within his throat And all the wood is lilting to his strain.

In the summer, Queen Annes lace makes me jubilant. The Place

Is chanting with the robin on the bough,And the yellowhammer flips where the lapwings peeping chicksHide among the ruts left by the plough.The field mouse and the toad creep across the old chalk Road,And the campers pitch their tents amid the wood.The tomb is cool and dank as the willowherb grows rank,And the megaliths are dappled, tall and good.

By the autumn, ripened haws bring fieldfares in scores,Descending on the hedges in a rush,And the roebuck and his doe flash their tails, and fleeting goWhere the beech invokes the Bronze Age with her blush.The fields turn gold as sun, where the brown hares jink and run,Evading dogs and guns amongst the straw,And the megaliths are dry, aspiring for the skyWhere the red kites call to windward as they soar.

And when the trees grow gaunt, I come to Waylands hauntAt the solstice, as the Smith climbs from the earth.He shakes away the clods, laughing scorn on newer gods,Holly-green and hale through winters dearth.The snow-encrusted rocks hear the coarse bark of the fox,And his spraint is pungent, feral as the storm,But I scorn to stay at home when the Ridgeway bids me roam,For I know that Waylands hearth is red and warm.

Source material: Waylands Smithy, a Neolithic chambered tomb with four large megaliths at itsentrance, is my favourite place in all England, and I visit it with Jeannie and my dog whenever I can. Itsgenius lociis Wayland the Smith, a folkloric figure who recalls the Green Knight with his prodigious

strength, his affinity for metals, and his lordly presence in the dark months of the year. It is said that apoor traveller whose horse has cast a shoe need only tether his mount beside the Smithy overnight, andtoss a silver coin into its interior, and Wayland will have shoed the horse by morning. The complexfolklore surrounding this site is given an admirably scholarly treatment by Jennifer Westwood andJacqueline Simpson, The Lore of the Land, Penguin, 2005, pp. 25-28. The Smithy is aligned so that therising sun of the winter solstice shines directly into the burial chamber: a phenomenon I have witnessedon several occasions. The animals and plants mentioned here have all been observed by me at the siteand in its immediate environs, and one of the pleasures of visiting it is witnessing its changing moodsthroughout the seasons. Poem by Giles Watson, 2010.