‘This is not nature in the Wordsworthian sense... We are in a land of scorched fields, dentists’ drills, helicopter searchlights city sirens and interior detail interwoven with flowers and plants. These are traditional themes with new twists, effectively managed... a welcome breath of fresh air’
South, April 1997

read a poem from Miletree

also by Paul Bavister - Glass & The Prawn Season

www.paulbavister.co.uk

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WILD MUSHROOMS

He peeled field mushrooms
fried them in butter
to make a starter
she picked from the pan
laughed when greasy strips
dripped from her lips
wiped up she waited
for prawns to fry.
Shifted chairs tipped up
she left the oven's glare
ran where light poured from doorways
blackbirds clacked alarm
sawdust turned to blood
engines in the sky
became a plane that drifted spray
over burnt fields.
She stumbled on dried tyre tracks
hid in a hedge
when men led dogs along a field's edge
three helicopters swept searchlights
through blackened brambles.
She ran to where
he held her said
"We picked the wrong mushrooms
you were lucky."