The Knollnby Tom MurraynThe knoll, the firs with space between,nCame not by accident.nLandlord or tenant with inner eye had seennWhat a far-otF future might presentnAgainst hills, lake-water, the nearer green.nFor centuries the track, the path and thennThe road were trained to curvenAround the hillside where it dropped to marsh and fennAnd generations of man and beast had learned to swervenLeftwards and, with wary vision, scannFor what might lie beyond. But also found.nDrawing the mind from watch and care,nBeauty that started from the seeded ground,nBranches patterned upon the bright or sullen air.nAnd forms that man had framed upon a moundnHe himself had made. For here the roadman’s spadenHad cast and raised the shifted earth.nHere the seed had sown the long years-after shade.nAnd here, in time of dearth,nA respite unpredictable had made.nOn summer afternoons, their dark work done,nDayshift colliers, in questnOf light and unfouled air and even clouded sunnOnce slowly walked and here lay down. “ThenMiners’ Rest”.nBecame its name. True enough, as one.nFor here, from tipsters’ columns closely readnAnd traced with Woodbine-browned forefinger,nThey’d place threepence on an Ascot thoroughbred.nArgue about centre-forwards and lingernOver far-off football fields they’dnnever hope to treadnThere’s less dearth now: of colliers not a sign:nEven the sheep have found more favoured grass.nThe knoll, the spaced-out firs spread their designnIn vain. Today’s motorist is intent only to passnThe lurching lorry straddling the road’s white line.nnnMAY 1989/13n