THE MAN WHO SAVED A FOREST

FOREST

This true tale of endurance, injustice and corruption, refused my prose to tell its story – so it made me write a poem instead to try and bring its message home.

                                                                 …

‘Twas November time as midnight struck

and ale was supped in the forest at Staples Hill.

Three Loughton men – Willingales all – began their winter lop,

for the custom was long in the making to gather the boughs

of this firewood crop, and assert their annual rights to this Epping

haul.

From St. Martin’s Day to that of George, so Royal Charter decreed,

all the parish people could take their common woodland need.

‘Twas their hard won right for long cold winter nights

and the warmth that their bodies would plead.

                                                 …

By two of the clock, the custom had been skilfully pledged.

Only boughs above the head,

seven feet it is said by ancient charter rules,

lay stacked in the sleds bound for Loughton.

But there was a difference in this year of 1866.

A clergyman’s fancy to call the forest his own had led him

to enclose the woodland, and fences had grown where fences

had no rights, so the sledges had left them broken and mown.

                                                 …

So it was this clergyman clad in his duplicitous skin

of Lord of the Manor of Loughton, shouting ‘Malicious Trespass’

to Willingale, his sons included – ‘you’ve flouted my

rule,  my patience is thin, my Bench will deal seriously

with your misdemeanours and malicious sin.’

His complicit cronies – of Lady Justice deluded –

had long ripped away their blindfolds in arrogant disdain,

their prejudicial gaze incensed by honest labourers bereft

yet threatening their days for forest theft and personal gain.

                                                 …

Two months hard labour was their wicked revenge for

actions justly clad in ancient custom’s robes.

Common right garments stitched by time immemorial,

unable to avenge such greedy corrosion

were torn from the back of all in Loughton.

More so for Thomas Willingale and sons.

Their cottage abode was snatched away as in

prison they lay cold and feverish across harsh winter days.

                                                 …

Outcries of anguish reverberated in the frozen air,
no thawing of injustice even near,

its icy grip squeezing all who cried foul

for this clergyman called Maitland had made his solemn vow

to steal and degrade all his parishioners lives,

for it was of no consequence for him and his profiteers

how his parishioners survived.

                                                 …

The cell’s damp horrors took one young Willingale to his eternity,

his brother and father left to mourn in perpetuity,

thrown out to a homeless winter on this new bleak January.

But with an inner strength Thomas held his head high

his resilience clearly to deny Maitland such blatant thievery,

but how to arrest the oppressing tide

of this clergyman’s greedy acquiescence to felonious trickery?

                                                 …

It was stage left from whence the allies came,

bearing the same indignation towards Maitland’s claim.

The Commons Society had strength of name and

embraced Thomas Willingale for all his anguish and pain

and now the odds had been re-stacked,

it was Willingale versus Maitland in the courts they would back.

                                                 …

Four long years, the thrust and parry of legal swords clashed.

Loughton’s figurehead Willingale stood it all –

but outcast from honest work, he suffered distress from

imposed conditions of labouring idleness

which was never dispatched from his thoughts.

Society funds of a mere one pound a week

was something and nothing to cherish.

                                                 …

Whereas Maitland’s men baited their trap

with five hundred pounds to see the suit perish

and Willingale’s resolve fade to nought.

He turned his face from this preposterous bribe

So stalwart was his renown,

but death had decided, time need be sought

to journey to his son.

                                                …

The suit now aborted, death’s dagger carefully thwarted

Maitland’s plans to trample common rights.

Epping Forest was safe till time gave the place for a

new protagonist supported.

The legacy they gained was at Willingale’s pain but

his sacrifice was amply rewarded.

His ethereal spirit and defiant lead would

now for ever be recorded as

The Man Who Saved Epping Forest.

Truly a task never courted but fate

awarded  it to Thomas Willingale

a lopper of Loughton at rest.

                                                …

blue

A  POEM WRITTEN WITH GRATITUDE TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS WILLINGALE (1799-1870)  A ‘LOPPER’ OF LOUGHTON WHO FOUGHT FOR THE  RIGHTS OF THE PEOPLE TO ASSERT THEIR COLLECTIVE COMMON HERITAGE OF THEIR WOODLAND CROP FROM  LONDON’S MAGNIFICENT EPPING FOREST AGAINST THE TYRANNY AND GREED OF THE LORD OF THE MANOR, THE LOCAL CLERGYMAN, J. W. MAITLAND.   DAVID KIDD-HEWITT)

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