Breaking with Brockholes

An unloving letter

Dear Brockholes,

To steal a line from my favourite lyricist,
You might think it strange of me
To write to you this way,
After all, you are a nature reserve,
Not a person,
But we’ve known each other such a long time
And you enabled me to share certain confidences,
Even intimacies.

You fostered some of my offspring,
I spent days out with you,
And even one or two magical evenings.
I spent money on you,
And encouraged others to do the same.
You introduced me to curious strangers,
Including some fellow nature-lovers
And arty types,
Some of whom you still see,
Though you’ve had enough of me.

My father knew you before you were born,
Way back when
He camped near the horseshoe bend
Of the River Ribble
One companion
That you can’t get rid of.

Another is the M6 carriageway
The perpetual origin of your constant moan
The perennial flaw in your professed tranquillity
That’s always heard but never green.

I was smitten when I first saw your mature shape.
A pseudo-Saxon homestead floating amid the reeds
A fortification, not to protect those within,
But to keep the wild ones out
Where they need to be.

I was thrilled when you first offered to stock my creation
Way back in 'thirteen.
“We want to support local authors”
Said your kinder voice,
And my first citric journal
Graced your gift shop
Helping you, while
Helping me 
To help others to see
What our world could be.

Then you took me on board,
And I floated my wares
Alongside other rafted crafters
Some of whom I got to know,
Beyond the sweet sentiment of mutual appreciation.
They bought my work and I purchased theirs.
Not one said I should not be there.
No one did
Until you changed.

Meanwhile, I’d met countless strangers
And occasional old friends
Even some distant relatives
I did not know I had.
It was a kind of wedding,
You and me: a publicly encountered couple
With our congregation of potential readers
Ushered to witness the promises we made.

We shared some happy years
And along came my boy
With his own wild progeny
To add to my brood
And when he flew the nest
With your help
His fauna found what you promise
Foster homes for rare examples.

There were many more
Reedy memories
Then suddenly,
You’d had enough.
Was it something I said?
Or wrote?
You didn’t say
In your note.

I will not be tying up on your island again
Or sit watching the driving rain
Keep the punters at bay
Or see the sunrise on strangers’ faces
As they find what they didn’t know
They were looking for.

I only wanted two more dates

Ah well,
We’ll always have those wildlife days,
Sunday mornings by the lake,
Kestrel Kevin stationarily spying
While flying
Over drakes ducking and diving
And geese greyly lagging back
Or dreaming of Canada
While I helped fellow merchants
To lug their baggage 
Over your drawbridge
Now raised.

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Uneasybooks will not be at the Brockholes’ Christmas Markets this year, but if you feel inclined, do slip off Junction 31 of the M6 and pop in to see the other traders. They have some super stuff.

Meanwhile, though I won’t be on the lake, if you want to dip into my books, they remain waiting to entertain at Uneasybooks in the Amazon bookstore.

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