Vinegar Hill

The town reservoir on the hill

Was built in the forties.

If you lifted a round metal covering

And dropped a stone, you could

Hear it plonk into the depths.

There were small hollows in the rocks

That, no matter how dry the weather,

Were filled with rainwater.

These rock-pools must have been here

With different water in them

That summer when the rebels

Fled towards Needham’s Gap.

From the hill, as the croppies did,

You can view the town, narrow

Streets even narrower, and more

Trees and gardens than you imagined. 

It was burning then, of course,

But now, it is quiet. There is,

In the Market Square, a monument

To Father Murphy and the Croppy Boy.

We can see the hill from our house.

It is solid rock in the mornings

As the sun appears from just behind it.

It changes as the day does.

My mother is taking art classes

And, thinking it natural to make

The hill her focal point,

Is trying to paint it.

What colour is Vinegar Hill?

How does it rise above the town?

It is humped as much as round.

There is no point in invoking

History. The hill is above all that,

Intractable, unknowable, serene.

It is in shade, then in light,

And often caught between

When the blue becomes grey

And fades more, the green glistens,

And then not so much. The rock also

Glints in the afternoon light

That dwindles, making the glint disappear.

Then there is the small matter of clouds

That made tracks over the hill in a smoke

Of white as though instructed

By their superiors to break camp.

They change their shape, crouch down

Stay still, all camouflage, dreamy,

Lost, with no strategy to speak of,

Yet resigned to the inevitable:

When the wind comes for them, they will retreat.

Until this time, they are surrounded by sky

And can, as yet, envisage no way out.