Long Man of Wilmington
He was a man too bold to bury in the town.
His eyebrows bristled hedgerows
And from his smouldering face the black looks fell
Like a flock of rooks, a murder of crows.
Lime-kilns that were his smoking eyes flamed fear
In hearts of local country folk.
His arms were mighty corn-stooks bulging
From a lumpen neck, nipped in at crook of elbows;
His thick trunk stern & strong as seven sycamores;
His legs too long for some poor, paltry parish grave—
Nay! What he needed was
The whole sloping shoulder of the hillside,
The weathered, rough-edged ridge and dorsal spine
Of the long line
Of the Downs.
Poem submitted as part of the Places of Poetry project, find out more here.