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.
Then bubbling from the twig-green bush
A ripe blackberry of a nightingale song
Glistens like his pitch-slick eye,
Blinding the blue blaze of day
Up there above the unlit leaves.
I brace against the hazel trees
And scrape a hole in the weed to earth:
Unlade my bowels into the damp,
And cover my scat with sycamore leaves
Bruised to dark green pungency.
I leave the nameless spinney
And enter the sun-filled void of a field
Where horses graze and pheasants hide.