Public Order

Deep in the eighties,
deep in the New Forest
thirty others and myself
located the hunt and scrambled

into position behind the fox,
beyond the hounds and far
beyond the riders on
their impartial steeds.

Deep into the trees
we smelt the dog-fox
and left our smells
of homemade Antimate®:

citronella and garlic
blended with the steaming air
above the bracken and the fern
of the forest floor.

That one escaped, his belly scraped
the foliage as he fled and we led
the hounds upwind of him,
keeping wary eyes on them.

Downwind things were simmering,
men in red fuming;
their accusations lingering
to taint the spring air.

Then came the men in black,
on went the cuffs,
no questions were asked
as we flew in the back

of a big white van
with grilles on the outside,
cages on the inside,
a fast driver and a trip to the cells

for an afternoon, an evening
a cold cup of tea
and not a single reason given
for our custody.