Anna Crowe
Mended fence, Barra
Mended fence, Barra
after a photograph by John Cooper
Let no smalnesse retard thee; if thou beest not a Cedar to help towards a palace, if thou beest not Amber, Bezoar nor liquid gold, to restore princes; yet thou art a shrub to shelter a lambe, or to feed a bird; or a plantane to ease a child’s smart, or a grasse to cure a sick dog.
John Donne, Essays in Divinity
Darned like the heel of a sock, like boot-hose,
with baler’s twine instead of worsted, with rope
and string and twists of wire, the mended fence
reveals itself as a kind of random knitting.
Purely utilitarian, this link-work
has a beauty that’s all pro tem, ad hoc,
with textures suggestive of the wider picture,
differences: a study in tensions where
the braced immutability of the post,
split and splintered, poker-worked
by shadows of staple-ring and hook,
is relished no less than the angled span
of iron rails as flat as swords, pocked
and grizzled, and buttoned by rivets: and if a line
of galvanised steel opens its arms
like a horizon after rain, or if it receives
the downward skewering twist of wire
that feathers the light like a gannet,
it’s accidental; and there is still room
for twine and string, each with its proper weight
and implicated strength, to be roped-in.
Nylon twine radiates sun, fraying,
and ends of string are wanton tassels of frizz,
but this small net of knots and hitches, reefs
and grannies, deters the straying lamb and plays
cat’s cradle with the wind as it lingers or passes,
muttering (to a droned continuo
of shepherd’s thyme and turf and gorse, sheep’s dung,
sea-weed, diesel) snatches of things like
if thou beest not a Cedar
and
no man is an island
and
make do and mend.