The Autumn Hunting Of White Caps Poem by James Fitzpatrick

As I'd lie there immersed in the ‘vapoured' scent of
August pine, dragged in by the ‘pigeoned' orchestra of
bended branch, the late Summer would sizzle pig and spit goose fat on

A ‘Lino'd' floor, as bread would turn to smoke. We'd march,
after soothing the screaming Kettle, chewing the soggy pud,
and filling to the top of our shiny flasks, the excitement

Of what was to happen. And although I never got used to the
dewy cobwebbed nets, or the sock soaking yellow headed weeds
while I'd trip on the scarred ground where old hooves dug in for grip,

I'd never complain to himself, or want to be anywhere else. At
those moments I'd happily blow wishes on the flight of the ‘Jimmy Jos',
dance round droppings of the furry invaders, take pictures of wandering stalking foxes,

then demand to do it again. Together, we'd search the mist
ridden incipient gleam, guided by the map of years gone by,
squashing quarry as the baskets were filled to the brim, listening to some tree lined chatter.

It was when you were small everything was big, cows then were all
Bulls and Bullocks, and they'd stand in the onrushing waters and shiver,
And they'd stare as you trundled on by.

But as I lie here immersed in that familiar scent, surrounded by the silence
of those long ago birds, my Summer now sizzles as I turn on the spit
And remember the murder of caps.