The Buzzards

The cliffs above me are inhabited by jackdaws. Their chattering endless as they pluck twigs, readying nests as the days grow longer. Yesterday I walked kippers dogs up a nearby Iron Age hill fort. From here you can see across to the Brecon beacons and when cloud lifts, the black mountains the furthest horizon. To the other side, Shropshire and the hill forts I know, Bury Ditches, the one above ythe cottage I lived in near Aston on clun and the third, further north. All have similar three or four tiers where local farmers must have once retreated to when invaders, raiders came. Here defence must have been easy, forming village settlements amongst those who manned them full time, farming rabbits, none of whom seem interested in perhaps due to altitude. They always feel warm, one could pitch a tent happily there even at this time of year to live in comfort.
Today I walked up the valley we are in, locally called the buzzards. An apt name as many float overhead. Reducing to 1mg I am raw but ok. Tolerable comfort but my arms feel sore still from wounds left over. Healing by the day. The pine forest walk begins with a native hardwood entrance but grows away to forestry. Up higher, escaping the mud track I find badger sets, mounds of earth stretching 100 yards across. Small clearings occur as you follow paths badger or deer height, bending low to not snap twigs. Disturbing roosting buzzards. All is damp, waiting for spring but buds on hawthorn and other signs, bluebell leaves readying themselves for May and colour currently lacking.
Missing my family and hoping my words, spoken to help but no doubt reshuffled to spit me away, the outsider, the misunderstander of family lies that ties them together through bullshit agreed upon long ago yet alien to me who can't see why truth should be so hard to bare.
I had mentioned how my partner struggled mad with greif. In reply I received accusations of having borrowed money. Not a penny have I asked of them, nor would I. Not a penny from my own father never mind another's. I feel a scapegoating coming on. Not for the first time as an outsider. Nothing new. Families will pull together, preserve the veneer of untruths and kick out the outsider. My intentions were good. Not one mention of Midges death, the subject and central core of my communication. Just wired twisted jealousies. Perhaps Midge was all the things they never could be. Perhaps this shame, too fierce to face, cries out for any thing other than self reflection, acceptance of guilt or failure. So clear, so obvious to an outsider. So cruel to dismiss her death a detail of some greater drama. Denial bordering on evil. Take it out on me. Lynch the messenger. It won't be my first.