Poetry by Clare Best

I think of The Elms as the beating heart of Woodlands. The pack-house is a place of intense activity and hard work most of the time. Fresh produce is brought from the fields and the market garden, it is stored and packed, and goes out from here in vans to more than two thousand box scheme customers.

Despite all the busyness, there are certain times of day - early morning, evening when The Elms is a quiet, even a ghostly place. It is at these times that I have been most struck by the integration of the human and the natural worlds here. Everything is actually part of the same whole rhythmic process of living.

The Elms, dusk

The pack-house silent - orders sheafed
on spikes, dusty boxes piled in corners,
light retreats. The green sting of apple
haunts the air, blackcurrants
chill in darkness with red onions and broad beans.

A disk of sun slips; this place
reclaims itself for night
house martins dive on midges then fold
quick as shadow behind rusting gutters,
sparrows flick seed from chaff in the concrete yard,
where day on day in rain
and wind, tractors load, unload and turn.