'John Clare's Rules' by Brian Johnstone


John Clare's Rules

They sit before him as he writes
 – an insult and a kindness, both the same –
 mementos of a tree he loved, sat under,

 loved another in its shade, laid plans
 he thought the tree would see, ancient
 as it was, a familiar of the parish

 he had dwelt in, it had favoured
 centuries before. Centuries when fields
 were tilled, common land was open, free

 for whosoever trod the paths, gathered
 brushwood, grazed their individual beasts.
 Gone, as is the oak felled in the name

 of progress, of profit to the carpenter who,
 hearing of his loss, has made from it
 these rules that gather dust upon his desk;

 rules pricked out in inches the tree out-topped
 in feet. A kindness, to allow of his regret;
 an insult, mocking what he can’t forget.


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