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.…

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