So fast and furious a cascading code,
In urgent passion to relay the word.
There he is - it must be he,
With his bumptious bounce and flicking tail,
A ball of brown life perched on a rail.
Looking at me and looking bright,
Head to left, bounce to right,
Along , along and flick about.
"I'll say it again you slow stupid lout!"
So small and so big in life,
A wren.
Then off he whirrs, next please, job done,

PIGGY LANE
In autumn sunshine

Up into the soft green tunnel I tread;
Black van guard with brown-eyed glance back goes ahead,
To sun-light shimmering with white-bright specks,
Of buzzing life which makes me check,
To focus, and pick from lifted paw a thorn;
Then on we go as to the manner born,
But slowly too,
Gently and to see and smell whatever is new.
A speckled wood flitting, then posing on hawthorn spray,
“Touch me if you can , it's a game we play!
This is where I live - it's all mine,
And I'll see you through, just fine.”
Skull ground-mass thrusting through dewy green spears,
A new-born giant puff-ball sphere,
Waiting to be plucked.
Nettle ranks green and thick,
Stand by the sides and bend to my swishing stick.
Black-purple bullous balls droop down from tall trees,
Through yellow-green light-bright leaves,
Waiting to be plucked;
Or slouch
In squidgy heaps upon the ground
Among green apples which roll around,
Slowly, softly when toe-touched,
Along the mossy path.
I see through dark hedge trellis strands,
The bright green meadow land,
Where strutted cock-curlew for his dames last spring;
And floated through in clever swaying flight,
A rare ring-tailed raptor, who caught not a thing,
About a year since now, in morning light.
And now, now a new sense gains,
Sweet smell of berries black,
Sun-warmed and fat,
From long summer rains,
Waiting to be plucked.
What wine tastes like this?
Memorable moment, special bliss!
Mass upon masses piled high on the bushes,
Gleaming and glistening in great black flushes.
Who will do the plucking,
Who will have the time free?
Perhaps this band of sparrows,
Twitching and flitting from bush to tree;
A bird-brown cavalcade singing for tomorrow,
An avian ode to a precious day.

"Piggy Lane " explained .....

Where is it?      It runs East - West, starting by the telephone kiosk on the bend of Chidham Lane, and finishing beside Woodstock Farmhouse, just north of Chidmere.

Is that its real name?     No,  someone called it that because it ran alongside a smallholding where Vera and Rosemary raised pigs for many years after the second world war. The pigsties have long since disappeared, though are still visible on aerial survey according to the Ordinance Survey.

I take Scipio along the lane as part of a routine walk. Like all dogs, he likes new exciting places to explore, but also enjoys regular walks in his ‘patch', where everything is carefully inspected and markings renewed. Yes he is black, has brown eyes, and goes ahead when let off the lead.

"Speckled wood" is a pretty brown and white butterfly which displays in its territory.

The narrow lane is hedged on the south from the meadow where many birds can be seen including, memorably, a young hen-harrier - the rare ring-tailed raptor - which visited briefly last year. The north side of the lane has tall apple and wild plum trees [bullous], up which grow brambles laden with fat blackberries this summer. And bands of sparrows and finches along the hedges after the breeding season, in autumn.

So this short straight track contains much magic of the country side if one takes the time to linger , look and listen.

John Cummins

From Steve Tanner
Hi Guys, I like the article and poem about Piggy Lane by John Cummins (Seasonal Greetings from the Country Diary Team). You may be interested to know that the Piggy Lane is actually called "The Twitten".  Maps dating from the first quarter of the 19th century, held in the County Record Office, give the names of many of the old lanes and tracks in the parish, including Calloways Lane and the now defunct Kitty's Lane.  Twitten is an old Sussex name for a path or alleyway.