Rodborough Fields: A Curse

A piece of parchment flew through an open window of the number 14 ‘bus today and landed on my lap. It was entitled   A BEGGAR’S CURSE.  I have made a transcription.

If you build on this field,

Springs will o’er-turn your water table,

Peasants will harrow your dreams,

Cut ridges in your anxious brow.

If you build on this field,

Weavers will riot in the night,

Stretch nightmares on tenterhooks,

Turn your eyes Stroud Scarlet.

If you build on this field,

The Frome will burst its banks,

Flood your conscience with remorse,

Leaching stains of turbid regret.

If you build on this field,

Grass will grow in your pockets,

Celandine in your bank vaults,

Weeds in your account books.

What can it all mean?

 As soon as I had typed the last letter of this transcription, the sere parchment rose on an up-draught of air and flew out of the window.

An unsettling start to the day.