Thursday, 1 March 2012

The Constant Companion

Stoner Hill is in Edward Thomas country, close to Petersfield, Hants.

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I climbed to the top of Stoner Hill
   To wash my head in the sky,
And passed a blackbird shaking its bill
   As the two of them went by:
Young Georgie Fellows rushed down the path
   As if he had seen the dead;
The constant companion stifled a laugh
   And slowly turned her head.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   The quarry moistened its rubbery lip
   And calmly awaited the final slip.

I went to the market early one day
   For joy of the muttering crowd,
And stood by the churchyard out of the way
   Where the noise was not so loud;
But praising her wares in a genteel voice
   Behind her makeshift stall,
The constant companion offered her choice
   Dark cooking apples to all.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   Two old people bought her fruit,
   Confusingly shaped like mandrake root.

I walked by the river to bask in the sun
   And raise my hat to the girls;
The craneflies danced like smoke from a gun
   And the water plaited its curls:
But drifting down on the eddying tide
   In a boat with a nameless rower,
The constant companion offered a ride
   To a girl as fresh as a flower.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   And Jenny Mulholland in the best of cheer
   Accepted the offer to row to the weir.

 Came autumn-time and terrible pains
   Afflicted the people around,
They put it down to the cold and the rains
   And the curious mist from the ground;
But in sickrooms with plasters and cups of tea,
   And a strangely woven shawl,
The constant companion devotedly
   Gave close attention to all.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   And people smile at her, “How are we now?”
   And her bony fingers soothing their brow.

In the depths of winter the clergyman
   Shivered and said to his wife,
“She seems half-saint, half-harridan,
   And scares me out of my life.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” she giggled and said –
   That day at Evensong
The constant companion lifted her head,
   Stared steadily, and stared long.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   And over the year as weak as a wave,
   The parson coughed his way to his grave.

In May when the glorious vernal weather
   Made Stoner throw off its hood,
Like a joyful dog released from its tether
   I rushed and sniffed through the wood;
I danced in last year’s bracken before
   I saw through the speckled gloom
The constant companion, dabbing a sore,
   Advance from her forest room.

   Is it true what they say, on a misty day
   She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?
   I do not know for, frail as a breath,
   I am fixed in the eternal study of death.

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© July 1980