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| The Poetry of Nicholas Hancock The Poet of Despair Published by The British Hancock Society with the permission of the author. |
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BRICK-A-BROCK Doug's Tranny up ahead lurched in our headlights eating bright scars into the clay. Beside me Linda choked on her fag smoke; Doug changed to first, wheezing exhaust. We doused lights passing Blair Grange, our dogs yelping. Joe tugged the chains, cutting their voice. Beams on again, the straw stack was contorted, shadowed by hill beeches. Out Doug jumped to open the gate, his rear lights giving Linda a transient blush. Through in the ruts, we found the badger set by an old brick pile. Joe and I dug sweating. A damp wind was clapping beech twigs, woody palms applauding. But no one heard: the brindled bitch was whining, sensing a snuffle deep under the ground. I broke the roof of the set; out climbed two badgers. Loosing the Russels, Joe shone his torch. All four of them turned on one badger, the other slipping away. Torchlight revealed unzipping flesh, the red stains on the whiteness, clay on the black. Linda's young bitch retired in darkness high-screaming, nose pendant. One of the dogs closed homing teeth around a windpipe; we hovered, observing. The digging feet clawed deep into dog-flesh but powerless to stop a ripping of throat; the dog was mourning its blood on a badger finished by cracking bricks on its skull. A bin bag coffined old Badger in the back seat. Filling its set and closing the gate, we drove back home while tears twisted my Linda, forced to accept the death of her bitch. A good old sport celebrated at midnight! Drinking a gin, Linda had calmed. We went to bed; I took Wind in the Willows quietly from Dan's sleeping hand. |
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