The Butcher of the Black Lion

The August sun beats down like brass on Bridgwater’s high street, And heavy hangs the stagnant air with flies and turning meat. Inside the town hall’s stifling court, the magistrate looks down, To where a Devon lion’s ghost stands captive of the town. "Now, John," the grey magistrate says, and wipes a sweaty brow, "The Privy Council draws a line, and we must keep it now. The Swine-Fever has locked the gates, the infected circle’s set, Yet here you stand for moving pigs without a warrant yet." The constable steps up to speak, his collar tight and hot, The very man who John backed up when tavern brawls grew shot: "He brought two porkers through the line, Your Honour, it is true— But in this heat, a butcher’s shop has frantic work to do." For John looks back with steady eyes, a tradesman in his apron, Who knows his sires wore the gold when Tudors ruled the nation; Though Bickington is lost and gone, and Dartmoor lands are dead, A Fursland still must feed the town and earn his daily bread. "The sun," says John, "seeks out the calf; the meat turns in a day, The inspectors walk with heavy books to throw our trade away. The people clamour at the shambles, crying out for meat, While London lawmakers decree what Somerset may eat!" The magistrate weighs up the law against the ancient name, He knows the plague that broke the line, the shifting of the game. The constable looks to the floor—he needs John’s muscle still, When Saturday brings drunken mobs to riot at the mill. "A nominal fine," the bench declares, "to satisfy the state, Go home, John, lock your livestock up, and bar the market gate." A nod between the three of them, a shared and silent sigh, For laws are new, but hunger’s old, beneath an August sky.