Jack's Wood


How the place got its name, nobody knows,

but there it is on old Ordnance maps;

Jack's Wood. Yet there isn't a single tree,

not since the gale last February

took down the oak that had stood there alone,

longer than anyone can remember,

or written record tell; hardly worth calling

a tree, so small, windbent and gnarled it was.




Nobody can say who Jack was, either,

nor what he wanted with so bleak a spot.

A few bushes beat the funnelling winds

and sheltered spots hide Autumn blackberries

that are never picked because no one goes there.

Where you might expect to hear clear music

of a stream, the sandy bottom is quite dry.

No creature – rabbit, squirrel or field-mouse,

inhabits. In spring a few small birds

flit secretively among the bushes,

their tiny voices emphasising silence .




No one likes the spot, but cannot or will not

say why; just a shake of the head, prelude

to changing the subject. It may be something

has been passed down through generations,

knowledge not to be divulged to strangers:

perhaps they no longer even know themselves.




But now, as the town sprawls nearer, there is talk

that houses may be built over Jack's Wood.

Bulldozers will level and obliterate

all but the name on a map: Jack's Wood Estate.

Strangers who know no better will dig gardens,

plant rose bushes, trees and levelled green lawns;

yet lie abed uneasy Winter nights,

wondering at the anger of the wind.








Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved