Tar Balls

 

 

Each ball was a tangle of rags

Soaked in tar, every inch Brer Rabbit’s

babies, single string clackers

tied with farm wire to a twisted handle,

held at arm’s length, swung to and fro

then higher and overhead

so the centrifugal force

kept the fire from flares and dirndls.

 

Three streams of flame flowed,

halos of light, from The Lamb,

the scout hut and Taplins farm.

The turning torches converged

at the green across from the church

towards the house-high stack

of wind-fall branches and old pallets

in a procession of glowing faces.

 

The wranglers circled the bonfire,

still curving their tar balls in the air.

One by one fire-balls flew

some to the heart, some to the head

some became incoming missiles

to the crowd opposite the thrower,

hastily collected in asbestos gloves,

returned to the conflagration.

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​Villagers would warm their hands,

scoff sausages doused with onions,

hunker down on bales of straw

made sofa-like by farmers’ lads,

sup pints or halves of tepid beer,

watch the young girls cadging

firemen’s lifts and engine rides,

wander off to sing in pub snugs.

 

But Charlie Hayes is gone ten years,

filled St John’s with paid respects.

His farm split into developments

and no one makes tar balls like him.

The village is mostly stockbrokers

who adore the traditional

but don’t want the green disfigured

by a charred circle through the winter.