On the Wing
Challacombe Farm
Naomi gazes over the tin pits, hidden
in the heather. This landscape written,
overwritten, peatbog topography smudged
across moochy swamps. How Tarmac
bisects what could be the blueprint
for a beaver’s home: conifer road,
redline, constraint. A road which sinks
into the marshes, where the stained-
glass fritillary wings are shattered visions
of landscape. A valley, viewed from above.
Look closer into that yellowing mosaic
and you can see the microscopic cattle,
Naomi’s giant pets; the no-bother magic
mushroomers, gathering in visions;
the lines on these wings, miniscule dry-
wall shiners, the odd dropped corner
still standing, centuries later; all the obvious
tessellations of time: tin-mine time,
chrysalis time, farm time. Don’t be a
marsh fritillary, says Naomi, they are rubbish
at having sex. But they do inspire affection,
competition: a golf cup repurposed as
award for shares of metapopulation. So much
heavy lifting on such slight wings: of loneliness,
connection, delivered door-to-door along lanes,
restorying figures in this landscape, on the wing.
The hillside weeps water, light green through
inorganic bracken. And hillside recalls when
wolves trod within the pawprints of bears; time
scribed by more than just toes, cloven hoofs.
Walls remember warrens they once hemmed
in for tin-miner protein. How humans move
through the open works of ourselves, camp
on the mosses and lichens in our temporary
lives, lighting sparks of blame and leaving
embers of truth. We are a bluebell blip
on the grazed glaze of this meadow. We
are aggy, spitty, spongey alpacas, peering
over fences – out of place, settled in.
How do you get a signal up here?
On the wing of one of nine fritillaries,
in a meadow slowly dusking into shadow.
How do you get a signal? Here, us flecks
between stone walls, flimsy as pigment.
How do you? One of ten now. How?
One of twelve, hard to spot: so small
and adrift in this brief beam of sun.
– Caleb Parkin, RENEW ECR Visit to Dartmoor, May 2025