SIGN IN THE SPINNEY

The sun has spun its last threads Among the dark-dappled campion And dog’s mercury. It is all black And silver beneath. The moon’s colours. This is an old badger track, dead Footprints dissolved, but a route unfolds Into tangles of hazel and briar. It leads to the base of a massive ash Which I, listening, lean against. The dry and oily muntjac scat Betrays somehow the death of badgers At the secret hands of men.…

Continue reading

PITMOREHILL COPSE

It is not much of a hill. A smudge of yellowy brown On the white sky, like fox shit in thin snow. But it is a Midlands hill, brought to the plain fore By the black, leafless copse veining the field. Seen from this distance, the cold thicket gapes wide Like a mouth opening to utter a muffled word Without expression. Visible breath exhaled softly From bones beginning to cool at their edge. I have…

Continue reading