Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

" This next piece of writing, contains strong sexual content material and graphic language. Many people find it both harrowing and disturbing. It depicts and catalogues a series of true-life events. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, of which there is one; the laws of libel prevent my naming and shaming the guilty; of which there are many."

 * Reader discretion is MOST STRONGLY advised - As it may easily offend. For this I make no apologies. Events like these are happening HOURLY all over the world at this moment in time, and society as a whole SHOULD be doing more to prevent such misery "

 ........................................

 " IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE, .....CAN IT?..."

 It's Sunday,
 She's staying at dad's flat tonight.
 She adores him;
 With the trust that is naturally instilled
 In a child.

 Dave, her father,
 Plays cards with his friends;
 While she watches, smiling.
 The pot is short;
 It's his call.
 He must make amends.
 Forty pounds is the bid.

 With a knowing nod,
 Colin folds his hand;
 And taking hers,
 Leads through the door
 To she knows where.
 The now empty bedroom
 That she sometimes has to share.

 Shush - don't make a noise;
 Your stifled cries,
 Will frighten the toys.
 Who sitting in silence,
 Can only watch.
 As Colin slowly unzips his trousers,
 And loosens his belt another notch.
 Her favourite doll, alone in the corner,
 Draped across the wooden chair;
 Can but bear silent witness
 To the saddening pain
 She experiences there.

 Next day,
 She is driven to school;
 By her dad.
 In a tatty Volvo.
 Be-spotted with rust coloured
 Splodges of primer paint.
 A stark anachronism
 Of Swedish sexual liberalism
 The grubbiness of the grey,
 Mirroring the semen-soiled nightdress;
 Of the night before.
 The paint spots,
 Ghostly echoes
 Of dried blood stains
 Splattered on the white fabric.
 Heralding her lost innocence;
 That she would need to wash out
 Later in the day.
 When she finally returned
 To the living hell
 That served as home.

 He pulls in at the pavement
 Saying yesterday was fun
 And that they should do it more often.
 He tells her to take care of herself.
 Sick joke, what?
 But no-body's laughing anyway.
 Deprived of decency
 By her father
 In that he doesn't even open the door.
 She rises from the well-worn seat
 And gets herself out
 Just like countless
 Whores before.

 In some final bizarre sexual gesture
 As he slowly drives away
 He also discards the now empty
 Crumpled, finished cigarette packet
 Aimlessly through the window
 Into the uncaring street.
 It in its turn, would be picked up
 By some scavenger hard up
 On his or her luck
 Anxious to discover
 If it held any small delight.

 And on discovering not, it would
 Be consigned as worthless rubbish
 And be discarded yet again
 To a life on the streets.
 Until eventually, battered and crushed
 By countless uncompromising souls
 It would cease to be recognisable
 For what it once was.
 Circles within circles.
 Such is the life we lead.

 Four friends, sit
 Sharing girlish giggles.
 Talking tampons and towels.
 Discovering the inward
 Functioning of females
 For the first time.
 Smiles, over sharing
 Secrets of sexuality
 With their mothers.
 But she's not laughing.

 Sitting in the classroom
 She is longing to tell, someone,
 About the happenings
 Of the previous night.
 To be able to unload
 All that crushing fear;
 That is building up
 Within her frightened frame.
 Afraid to go home,
 She hangs around after class
 Anxious to explain her reasons.
 But no-one is listening.
 Nor can they read
 The pleading in her scared eyes.
 So she goes home alone, again.

 Sitting watching television,
 A break from the drudgery
 Of endless days
 Doing household chores.
 Fear strikes her heart
 As she hears the key
 Entering the outside door.

 Because the washing has taken so long
 And about it, she cannot tell;
 The dust she hasn't cleaned
 From the TV
 Only causes her mother again to yell.
 Her anger quickly turns to rage;
 Followed closely by a beating,
 And another verbal tirade.
 Then follows the shouting
 And the slapping.
 The angry name calling
 Infers that someone is a whore.
 Leading to her being pushed downstairs
 And landing on the hall floor.

 She pushes Amy into the cellar cupboard,
 Then callously locks the door.
 Leaving Amy, cowering in huddled fear,
 Upon the dark, coldest floor.
 Later, in her room,
 Curled up, tearful,
 Trying desperately to block out the pain.
 Lies listening to her sad sobbing.
 She closes her eyes.
 Escaping sleep is not easy in coming;
 But further along the hallway,
 Someone else is.
 Urgently calling for Amy
 Beckons her to her mother's bed.
 There, between thrashing thighs,
 And deep moaning sighs,
 Amy is forced to give her mother
 Sexual 'head'.

 Coming home,
 To the usually empty house,
 She cannot help but notice
 The smart car
 Parked outside.
 Putting her key
 In the door,
 As she has done
 So many, many times before;
 She is met by Geoff,
 The new man, in her mother's life.
 On the surface
 He seems very nice.
 Picnics of strawberries, wine
 And chocolate ice.
 And even washing up,
 Afterwards.

 School sports day comes,
 Giving her the chance
 To exercise her rights
 As a child;
 To youthful fun.
 Sack race successes,
 Loud accolades.
 Hiding the depths of depravity,
 That lies dormant.
 Buried deep within.

 It starts with a present,
 At bedtime.
 " Put it on, and come and show us how it looks."
 Simple games,
 Amongst the adult friends.
 Pictures are taken.
 Childish at first,
 It soon turns nasty;
 Leading to lewdness and lechery.
 Removing Geoff's trousers and pants,
 While her mother looks on;
 And laughs.
 Then starts the painful ordeal
 Of nightly rape.
 And the utterances of the threatening lie
 That if she ever dares to tell someone
 It would surely cause her to die,

 After a time,
 She can bear no more
 Of Geoff's disgusting behaviour.
 Goes to her father's workplace
 Hoping on hope
 That he'll prove to be her saviour.
 She tells him all
 That's been going on;
 And could she come to live with him,
 Please?
 Fraught with anger,
 Fired by fear;
 He goes and gives Geoff
 A beating with a garden spade.
 In his frustration at failing
 To protect his daughter
 From this pair of human animals
 With their filthy habits so degrade.
 Then he storms out,
 Leaving Amy to receive
 Yet another beating
 From her mother.
 That leads her to being locked
 In the cupboard
 Once again.
 The broken shard
 Salvaged from the shattered
 Kitchen window
 By which her father had entered
 Proves to be the key
 To successful self mutilation
 To which Amy administers
 Readily.

 When the time comes
 To leave her old school
 The teacher's reports proclaim
 That Amy is both clever and wise.
 But they all still
 Just sit and listen
 While her mother
 Continues to tell
 The same pack of lies.
 How Amy sits reading
 Quietly, in her room,
 For much of the time.
 And how she's always
 Out playing with her friend;
 But that is untrue
 From beginning to end.
 The teacher says Amy could do
 With really coming out of her shell.
 Hopes that she'll enjoy her new school;
 And with that, she wishes her well.

 Sitting with her new found friends,
 Thinking that this place,
 Could indeed be really cool.
 Then one says,
 Someone is trying to greet her,
 From a van.
 Parked outside the school.
 She peers across the open courtyard.
 At her father, who's come to meet her.

 Full of reasons,
 Why he hasn't been more often.
 Excuses that money has been
 So short lately;
 Sometimes he hasn't eaten.
 Now he's come to take her out,
 About the true reason for his motives,
 There still exists more
 Than a little doubt.

 Having bribed her,
 With a Big Mac meal,
 With Coke and a Cadbury's
 Curly Whirly,
 He apologises that he has no more sweets;
 But if only he had more money,
 He could afford to buy her
 Lots of treats.
 Then the unsubtle suggestion,
 That she could really help Daddy,
 Just by working the nearby streets.

 Standing on a dim
 Lamp-lit street;
 In her denim jacket,
 And her flowery
 Short length skirt;
 Wearing virginal white gym socks,
 with matching plimsolls.
 Her long hair , shining,
 Looking very much her age.
 Having only turned thirteen,
 But for a little while.
 People, from which she
 Should get only love;
 Blatantly exploiting her sexual genes.
 Although she cannot spell Paedophile;
 She is painfully aware of what it means.
 " For a wank, charge'em twenty five quid,
 If they want a blow-job, charge them thirty"
 Practising that will corrupt her mind;
 Into believing love and sex,
 Is always something
 That is sordid and dirty.

 A sexperienced competitor,
 In these matters,
 Gives her, and her dad;
 What amounts to a friendly warning.
 This particular spot,
 Is her pitch.
 And her pimp
 Will not be so tame;
 So her father,
 Just moves on with her,
 To somewhere else.
 In his dubious quest
 It would seem he has no shame;
 With his repeated attempts,
 To get ' on the game'.

 The local lorry park,
 Proves a likely playground;
 For the sort of games,
 He has in mind.
 Providing a service,
 For all kinds
 Of men.
 The young, the old, and the lonely.
 Not the actual full sex, though:
 But just your blow and hand-jobs only.
 Making sure that the clients,
 Come in style;
 Being very sure to use a condom,
 All the while.

 He does a deal,
 Just for a full blow-job;
 " You know how, don't you,
 just go and suck his prick;
 It'll be all be over in a minute!"
 But it doesn't just take that quick.

 Squatting,
 She gives a blow-job
 To an unknown,
 Standing man.
 While her poncing pimp
 Of a dad,
 Sits smiling,
 In his grubby little van.

 Suck, suck, sucking,
 On a dirty, crusted,
 Foul-smelling prick,
 That's making her feel
 So, so sick.
 Wondering why it is
 That when you
 Want them to,
 they can never come
 Really quick.

 And when it's finally finished;
 She finds the smell of sweat and semen,
 Has left her feeling
 Really sick.
 Dave, buys her silence,
 With a fiver.
 Then he takes her back home;
 Double quick.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

 POSTSRIPT TO ' IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE. .....CAN IT? *

 " Children have the right to be listened to. The messages that they give us are often painful and disturbing, and challenge our capabilities to actually hear what they are in fact saying and take them seriously.
 Our conditioned instinct is to recoil from what we are hearing and deny the reality of what is being said.
 The act of sexual abuse of a child involves a fundamental betrayal of trust, and an abuse of power, which has devastating consequences for the child. Undermining the basic requirements of a child for relationships built on trust, that are both dependable and loving.
 This gives rise to the premise that children not only have to be heard but also need to be healed from the trauma of such experiences.
 The child's right to be respected as an individual person should be unquestionable; but it is a long way from being generally accepted within our society."

The Sophist

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Welcome, see the world
Where you are the church
Who feeds on the people
Witless in the lurch
What wonder the whirled
Wire web when the zorch
Watches life through the cheap
Wire under the porch.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

In fields of Barley 

 If I tried to tell you truthfully
 You probably wouldn't understand
 Just how good it feels right now
 To be trespassing in the fields
 Of the Farmer's fertile land.

 Watchin' the Hawk huntin'
 Field mice, voles and the odd rabbit or two,
 Who in turn are out in the morning sun.
 Foraging for food to keep their families fed.
 Feeding on the filling green ears of barley
 Growing gracefully in a swaying breeze.

 Maybe she'll end up catching
 A dozing dormouse
 Taking forty well-earned winks
 From the furore and frantic frenzy
 Of activity that fills the field.

 Walkin' with my four-legged friend,
 Teachin' him of fetch and catch.
 While all the time, the real lesson is
 Learnin' to like the lead.

Dusti Rodes (2013)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Snapshot

 Fox appears.
 Dove flies.
 Rabbit petrifies.


Dusti Rodes (2008)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

When you go down to the theatre today

 (To the tune of Teddy Bears Picnic)

 When you go down to the theatre today,
 You'd better go in disguise.
 When you go down to the theatre today,
 You're sure to get a surprise.
 'Cos every fear that ever there was,
 Is gathered there because,
 Today is the day that Dusti
 Has his heart operation.

 Big ones, little ones,
 scary ones.
 Oh what fun there'll be.
 Spiders, rats and ghoulies
 Thing that are not really there,
 You'll be sure to see.
 Walls walking, bed bottles talking,
 Through cavern-like mouths.

 When you're back on the ward tonight,
 They'd better not turn on the light.
 When you're back on the ward tonight,
 You're likely to have a fright.
 'Cos every fear that ever there was,
 Are gathered here tonight.
 'Cos today's the day that Dusti
 Had his heart operation.

 Dusti Rodes (2008)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

My Heart Goes Out

 My heart goes out to you,
 My brothers and sisters.

 The goalkeeper was beaten,
 The ball was on it's way in;
 Then the whole African nation
 Was raped and robbed of Victory
 By the hand of yet another South American.

 Suarez was sent off,
 And so he should
 That was inevitable.
 Annan lined up the penalty shot
 But was beaten by the bar
 The rest was history.

 My brothers and sisters
 Sound your vuvuzela long and hard
 As the death knell to hope.

 Dusti Rodes (2010)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

'A Handful of Seeds'

 With a handful of seeds,
 And just one well,
 We could make the difference.

 Whether it be maize,
 To fill mouths and bellies.
 Or thoughts, to educate,
 And stir minds.

 Irrigated by rivulets of running water
 Or nurtured by the spring of Inspiration.
 Change can be made.
 If we but try.

 Dusti Rodes (2010)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

WHO?

 When I say Allan Ahlberg,
 People say, "Who?"

 Then I say "Well, I like him, don't you?"
 People say, "Who ....?"

 I say "He's a poet"
 People say, "When?"

 I say, " I first heard him back in the late Eighties"
 People say, "Oh, then!"

 I say, "Heard it in the Playground"
 People say, "You must be younger than you look!"

 I say, "No, that's the name of his book!"
 People say, "Never heard of it!"

 I say, "Haven't ..... YOU ? "

 Dusti Rodes (2010)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Influences in my life

 The father of the modern computer,
 Clive Sinclair;
 Bill Gates, for giving us software.
 Edward de Bono's
 Lateral thinking.
 Metaphysical poets,
 Spiritualism;
 The Beatles, of course;
 John Lennon in particular.
 The woman at the bus stop;
 The North American Indian culture.
 David Carradine, for Kung Fu;
 John Keating for the Dead Poets Society,
 Melanie Safkta, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez,
 John Denver, for just being themselves.
 Zen Buddism, Taoism, Confucius;
 Plato, Socrates, Kipling;
 Schizophrenia, for never leaving me on my own;
 And a cast of thousands,
 That have caused me
 To write it all down.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

BALLOON
(From 'Whittlin' Wood'

 My Heart is like 
 A big Red balloon.

 My love for you,
 The air that fills it.

 If I had anymore,
 I would surely burst.

 Dusti Rodes (2014)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Summer the First Time

 Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' The Awakening '

 Who was it,
 That said;
 Tarts have no hearts?

 No amount
 Of money ever.
 Would cover the cost,
 Or ease the pain.
 Of Innocence lost.

 Or was it offered
 Willingly.
 As a Sacrifice.
 On the Altar of Love?

 The Night knew,
 But was not saying.
 The Morning saw,
 And never uttered a word.


Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

The Lady in Red

 Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' Be she a Falcon or a Dove ' ( 2009)

 Puddles of pigment
 Of red and white,
 Bloom like flowers in the artist's palette
 Likened to a small, wild garden.

 She poses provocatively,
 Dignified but still self-conscious,
 Against the wide blue screen
 That forms the night.

 Robed in ravishing red,
 She stands bathed
 In Lady Luna's soothing light.
 While the evening star
 Plays shimmering consort.

 She did not fail to see
 The symbolism held
 Within the artist's eye.
 The meanings of her life,
 Captured there before
 The paint could ever dry.

 The Venetian mask
 Behind which she hides,
 Masquerades the pain of her past,
 Blood-red.
 And the golden promise of things to come.
 Are reflected by the candle's gentle glow.
 Lighting the way to her future.

 Marley said we all create
 Our chains of pain.
 Forged one link at a time,
 By our misery.

 Hers was a string of Pearl.
 Individual incidences,
 Joined by circumstance;
 Seeking to keep her,
 Forever fettered to the past.

 But the key lies in the roses.
 Poetic echoes reverberating .
 Be she a Falcon or a Dove ?
 A raven-haired temptress,
 Or an angel of love?
 A scarlet woman or a painted Lady?

 Hence from now onwards,
 She will be known only,
 As the Rose.


Dusti Rodes (2009)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Feeding Fish

 Standing somewhere,
 Feeding fish.
 Fairground freaks,
 Probably won't last
 Two weeks.
 A memory span
 Of less than seven seconds
 Or so they reckon.

 Why do they call them goldfish?
 When one is orange,
 And the other is brown;
 Swimming up and down,
 Around and around;
 As though their lives
 Depended on it,
 As it does.

 What have we got in common?
 I ask myself.

 Standing somewhere,
 Feeding fish.
 Fairground freaks,
 Probably won't last
 Two weeks.
 A memory span
 Of less than seven seconds
 Or so they reckon.

 Why do they call them goldfish?
 When one is orange,
 The other is brown;
 Swimming up and down,
 Around and around;
 As though their lives
 Depended on it,
 As it does.

 Dusti Rodes (2011)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

The Blackbird

 I see him,
 Everywhere, everyday.
 The blackbird.
 Here, near and far away.
 The blackbird.
 Tilling the dark brown soil.
 The blackbird.
 Continuing in his daily toil.
 The blackbird.
 Colliery coal-face in colour.
 The blackbird.
 Eyes that glint,
 With a light,
 Like no other.
 The blackbird.
 I see him,
 On a fence.
 The blackbird.
 In a hedge.
 The blackbird.
 Reflected in a window.
 The blackbird.
 Perched high,
 In a solitary tree.
 The blackbird.
 I see him,
 But does he see me?
 The blackbird.
 Watching,
 Waiting.
 The blackbird.
 Demonic soul-seeker.
 The blackbird.
 Hell-sent carrion eater.
 The blackbird.
 Herald to the Grim Reaper.
 The blackbird.

 And his name is Death.

 Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

From ‘Blowin’ the Blues'

#When a woman gets the blues, she hangs her head and cries, when a man gets the blues, he boards a train and rides ... # (traditional blues song, author unknown)

Down in the Deep South, it can take three days to even SEE a train going through a station. Let alone have one stop there.

I guess his story started on that fateful night back in sixty-three. Someone had just killed Kennedy. John F, that is. He was shot while driving in a motor cavalcade down in Dallas. It sparked off a whole lot of conspiracy theories for decades to come. Even after the death of J.Edgar. Maybe he took the truth to the grave with him! Who knows?
I never really knew him then; I was but a little picca ninny on my momma’s knee, down on the plantation.  Barely finished suckling on her teaties. Papa said he was ‘nothing but a no-good nigre,’ and wouldn’t mount to a pile of beans. Just goes to show how wrong some people can be.

Sometimes Life can deal people a low card.
With him it had thrown away the rest of the pack and was only using a deck of deuces and threes with an occasional four. And it wasn't shuffling them, too well or too often.

He was what the white folk call 'coloured' not 'Black'. A mulatto and an albino one to boot. It was probably down to the unfortunate circumstances of his conception. His mother was 'Red' from Rhode Island. An 'easy lay' or so they say. But that was no good reason for her being gang-raped on the streets of Harlem now, was it?
His startling appearance often provoked a strange reaction in most people. Raised eyebrows, spinal shudder and shoulder shrug of revulsion, or a sharp intake of breath on initial sighting were common.

Standing a shade under seven feet, even with the stooping shoulders and strange way of holding his head slightly forward and lent to the left. Developed from years of attempting to listen with his good ear to what lesser sized folk were trying to tell him. His two hundred and sixty pound plus of bone and sinew barely covered by his leathery weather-wizened skin that had been exposed to the extremes of the elements for far too long. 
Long days of toiling at whatever work he could get. Bitterly cold nights spent in any shelter he could find. There wasn't any fat on that frame. Thirty-seven years of constant shortage of food had seen to that.
Cody Jarrel, cut a vision once seen, that few would forget easily. If ever....

Cody sat slowly drinking the dregs from the bottom of the empty bottles left by paying patrons of the bar.
He shuddered so violently, it wracked his frame to it's very core.
Sheltering on the back-stoop of the Shanty Shack, from the rain that had been incessant in its task of soaking him while he tried to seek some sleep to rest his weary body throughout last night.
It had succeeded, so he let out another shiver that clinked his spine.
Down in the doldrums, yet again, the future was looking real bad for him. And little did he realise it then, but it was going to get even worse before it could get better. Much worse.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

In the Wind

The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations.
He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander.
Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed.
The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it!
That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining
(From 'Working the Wilderness')

The authorities decision last Fall, to only empty the organic waste bins every two weeks from then on, worked in the Winter when nothing was growing and the temperature was zero or below most of the time.
But the warmer weather has arrived, and now the bins contents such as mown grass cuttings, rotting weeds, chicken carcasses, egg shells, fish heads, tails 'n' scales , animal's entrails and the like, stinks to high heaven.
The bin is teeming with ants and their eggs, absolutely mingin' with maggots, and the air is filled with flies most of the time.
But they say there's a silver lining in every cloud, if only you bother to look for it, don't they?
The bait for my fishing don't cost me anything no more.
In fact I'm even making profit by selling some of the ant eggs, casters and maggots to my neighbours for THEIR fishing needs!


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Clearing Levees and Cleaning out Culverts
From ‘Working the Wilderness’

They moved in a monster of a machine the other day. It was mounted on a very large low-loader, pulled by one real fancy rig. With a bucket jaw, mechanical mandibles, and telescopic legs powered by hydraulics, it looked just like a giant locust.  In leaving the landscape raped and ravaged by its passing, it might just as well have been. What with the wet winter and the really cold spring, Mother Nature got off to a bit of a slow start with her growing plans this year. But it must be said we’ve had some exceptional sun these last couple of months and she’s caught up magnificently. Folks around these parts were looking forward to an abundant harvest of wild fruits. Blackberries, elderberries, apples, even a few pears from the only tree hereabouts. Even the oaken bushes were full of acorns at this time; the pigs would have a real feasting this Fall. But it is all history now. The man from the Ministry decides last winter’s floods were too much and now the levee needs widening down by the bridge and several of the culverts could do with some serious cleaning. So they sent in that mammoth on Monday.  To get the trailer and its wide load down to the bridge, the rig took the most direct route it could, tearing up the surrounding vegetation as it lumbered along in its task. Gone are the banks of brambles full of blackberries where they cut out the culverts, so too are the briars with their precious bounty of rosehips. The birds will sorely miss them this winter if it turns as cold as they say. There was a fine crop of elderberries on those several trees down by the bridge. I was looking forward to maybe celebrating some special event with the produce formed from the fruits. Looks like I can only dream now of what might have been.   They were uprooted easily by that mechanical monstrosity in its relentless quest to widen the levee. As me and the Maverick went walking this morning, I couldn’t but help notice how desolate it all looks at the moment. The grassland all torn up, rotting down with the effects of the last few days’ dry weather, now soaked by last night’s storm. Rivulets of water running down ink-black soil banks, exposed by the monster’s jaw work. The rutting of the pathways caused by the sheer weight of trailer and the rig’s tyre tracks also being filled by the fallen rain. A real shame I reckon. But Nature being what she is, she’ll survive the ravages and in time return the status quo, just differently


Dusti Rodes (2007)