The Incomer

It's Peats Time Again

Over the years I have acquired a stove and cut "peats" from a bank in order to provide fuel. The work can be hard and I rarely looked forward to it. However, I now have a pellet boiler which removes the pain and is classified as ecological. So my view of peat cutting this spring has changed somewhat.

Time to eradicate the dross accumulated in the garage
In order to extract the iron forged in the depths
Of the hobbit hole deep in the island's industrial heartland.
I'll hammer the caked extras off the wellies from last year's escapade,
Thanking the Lord for the solid hangers over the toes
Which fought back the blade on repeated assaults.

Time to take the station wagon up the track
Bouncing over the frost glazed upstart white rocks,
Outcasts exposed from the decades of traffic,
Past the now three sided trailer that seems such a waste
And that car - how the hell did it get there?
Through gates repeating which hold in our abandoned prisoners,
Each one marked with their Commandant's colours
And leaping over failing borders, crumbling pillars with rusted wire,
Little puffs of cloud caught on the snagging spikes.

I'll see the white castles, ripped ramparts blowing
Bags that once held fossil fuel, now filled with last year's forgotten bounty.
And Macleod's territory, once so neat and trimmed, finest hedgerow on the moor,
Now overgrown since the angels took him to the land of perpetual central heating.
Standing on top of my trench, I'll survey the secret network cut into the fields
Names hidden with only blind man's sticks to indicate possession.

Swearing at the rock I've just hit, I'll plunge the spade back into the tight grass
Slicing my way through the tough crumble's top, waiting to reach the sodden apples beneath.
Then moving backwards - yes, you never seem to go forwards doing this-
I'll layer out the portions, thick then thin, depending on the depth,
Before stepping down to hurl the cuts like an OAP discus thrower
Refusing to acknowledge the time, spitting in the face of the past.
Where's the community nowadays, where's the family days of happy efforts,
Villages neighbourly sweeping through the land, turfing and cutting their way,
Wifies with basket on backs, babes playing in and out of the stacks.
Men together with shoulders bent, tossing a few scraps to the Godly man in their midst.
No, I'll cut alone and in incorrect fashion.

That's the thing - method, how to, there's no Haynes manual, no Ikea guide,
Just plenty experts to tell you your wrong, like a writer's convention.
So many styles, so many tips and hints, and yet it all burns,
More heat in the debate than in the grate.

Then I'll wait for the dryer to work, to bake my massive toasties
Nature's hot press with summer winds aplenty, shrinking my washing.
Checking their measure on the calmer days, I'll fight the threat of the airborne raider
As it sneaks in for singular attacks before showing its menace with a black vision.
Glorious days of summer wasted indoors, I'll be scared to venture forth
Worried about scratching itches, and downing Peritin by the bottle.

Desperately as autumn rain comes in, I'll blunder amidst the last routs of the black biters
To stack house on house before packing the fresh plastic bags for a homeward route.
Pleading for a tractor, I'll instead load the now rusted wagon and bounce peats about my boot,
Bags splitting and dust spilling to remain 'til next year's lunacy.
And with back aching I'll fetch and carry all winter the store inside to feed my stove,
Thirteen radiators fighting for warmth and storms blowing soot back down.
Relatives will complain at the copious ash, like crumbling sandy Edinburgh rock,
Spilt over carpet and hearth rug before urgent suction bags whisk it away.

You know what, I'll stick to my pellets, happy bullets of wood in neat clean bags,
Ecologically proven in their shipping from the mainland.
I'll toast the cash-back from my green decisions, outlays of hope for the future,
Instant warmth with all white panels blazing together.
And I'll say goodbye to jigging legs in my bed at night, to shoulders splitting,
To blisters bursting, sliding hands on the knife.
Au revoir to that comic turn of falling off the bank, jumping ship to cold water beneath.
No I'll bask in my bubble until the power cut kills my pump.