Bank by Diane Jackman

The dog bounds between the banks topped with gorse. Tail in the air, following the trail, some enticing scent. On she runs, purpose in every stride. 

As the space between the gorse bank narrows, starts to dwindle to a point, she slows a little, raises her head, listens. 

Ears pricked she steps forward delicately. Stops, head cocked , unsure. Then the shaking begins.

Her tail drops, curls between her legs. She draws back and whimpers. No longer the eager hunter, but now the quarry, roles reversed. Time run back. 

What is this place? Does she smell the blood, hear the screams of the penned rabbits, herded into the funneled trapping bank each Spring and Autumn. Driven by dogs and ferrets to their inevitable end. A valuable crop. Meat for the pot. Fur for felting and the making of hats. And earlier echoes of the famous black rabbits whose skins lined the robe of a Tudor king. 

She turns tail and runs wildly out on to the heath again, spraining her paw on the tumbled flints of the warren lodge, now lost to view.

Diane Jackman's poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies; winner of Liverpool, Deddington  and Norfolk Prize in Café Writers’ competitions,  librettist for "Pinocchio" (Kings' Singers/London Symphony Orchestra), author of seven published children’s books and many stories.  She is passionately interested in Anglo-Saxon literature and medieval rabbit warrens.