'Wenlock Land' by Paul Francis

1.
Inching its way
up from the South Atlantic
across the years and miles

the snail paced whale
emerges, landlocked:
Wenlock Edge.

2.
The massive Priory stones
mark out the landing strip,
grey pillars paced on green,

the flight path’s ending
where the Wenlock monks
received their sacrament.

3.
God made, and owned the land.
Then came the brainwave : trade.
Who got to own the land?

The lucky, shrewd and powerful;
survivors, favourites of the court,
the rich who could buy more.



4.
An old map named the fields
in a quilt of tenancy –
The Little Batch,

Waggoners Field, Cuckoo’s Nest,
Far Newtown Meadow,
The Big Pale Piece.


5.
Victorian geologists
imperial in ambition
began to chart the rocks.

Wenlock limestone, Shineton shale
are stamped indelibly,
staking their claim.




6.
Within this tiny space, extremes.
The Priory Lodge, sodden with history,
costs thousands to maintain.

Along the High Street, cottages
repainted, in their timbers know
the floods will come again.


7.
Time to declare an interest.
The councillor behind the housing deal
(whose father was a ratcatcher)

preaches development, but knows
the new estate will kill the view,
bury allotments, make him rich.

8.
The town expands
stretching the surface skin
as buildings ripple out.

The shabbiest barn
the smallest plot
become desirable.


9.
Concentric lines spread out
as new-built brick springs up,
inflates the town balloon.

Newcomers at the edge
oppose the further spread
which blocks their sight of fields.

10.
The old dig in. The young
look out, move out. They know
this cannot be their home.

Wages, prices: hemispheres apart.
The myth of ownership
does not belong to them.