EDGEHILL AT HALLOWEEN

 

Fine drizzle, 450 years later, Edgehill, a Cavalier mourned by his mother lies broken in Radway, stark outlines of Autumn, a neat new conservatory, PVC bright in the dark shadow, slugs, musket and canon, buried in the arable land, guarded by the MOD, waiting is strictly forbidden, ribbons and cards from last weekend's re-enactment moulder, pinned to the roadside pillar box, slam the gate, listen for the latch, grimacing pumpkins flicker burnt orange in the windows of the thatched and inaccessible, a golden carpet of fallen leaves, a pub on the hillside built into a folly of a castle with a dog, cat, beset son and lively landlord, the Parliamentarian helmet shines in the gloom of the stair, a new clock wound up, Rupert charging past the wild birds, guided through Graveground Coppice, freshly turned earth and pooling water, squaddies on patrol, an empty carpark of metal poles and a smashed headlight, no way out of Kineton, this road is closed, the ragged flag of Warwickshire, the ragged flag of England.