Some are farmer’s sons whose tenancies

have expired or been erased by a utility giant. 

A young farrier, with enormous hands holds 

his mug of tea like an egg-cup.  The dairy men 

with bent backs sit in strange positions, faces 

speckled with disappointment. 

 

Tea done, they hunch through the tin door, 

goading each other, a young farmers trip 

to Blackpool remembered. 

 

Hands un-gloved, men who worked tractors 

aged twelve have repurposed diggers 

creating machines for the bog.  

Caterpillar tracks are fitted to spread 

pounds per square inch lightly on the ground. 

For angled work weighted feet are forged

no-one wants to upturn for hours 

outside the range of GPS.  

 

In driving rain, they must read the land 

with programming from childhood, alert to gullys, 

solidity, prevailing winds, aspect, the falling dusk. 

In fog, a boulder might smash the digger’s belly.

Featureless, the terrain must be felt. 

 

The 3.30 break, back in the van. They sit 

tolerating each other. Grumpy bastards already, 

with lined faces and bad language. A joke, 

and some teasing later, Callum explodes, his arm 

crumples the caravan partition.  He holds his elbow, 

claiming bruises and blaming the gob-shite 

who made him. 

 

But he knows 

this work is all that stands between him 

and pumping sewage from camp-site septic tanks. 

Underneath his check shirt, he rubs the tattoo 

of his family's old flock mark.

 

© Juliet Fossey

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With special thanks to members of the Wordsworth Trust Writers group for their submissions inspired by our 'Our Common Heritage exhibition during its display at The Old Courthouse in Shap; its themes evident in their featured work.

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