What they do not see


The thread of compassion is

broken, their hearts lie bleeding,

drained pale, and yet they never

know, those who scrute the skies, gun

muzzle raised, never see when

some small craft of light bone and

feather falls so far from home.



Tell the wind the story of

how you followed your passion

for death (the death of others)

into the coverts, where life

lay trembling after a night

of cold rain, and snuffed it out.

Dare its cold disdain, minable.



And when the stars look down and

the sun sends light into each

covert where those feathers and

scraps of fur cold as night lie

stiff in reproach, do you see

a stolen life in that soiled

beauty? Are you the wiser?


Reasons to be cheerful

Small things to feel cheered by:

we got internet back this morning and the problem is apparently close to being solved;

panic over about not being able to send important docs electronically, just slipped in under the wire;

the youngest’s on-going drama of living on her own far away and finding herself locked out of things like cash flow in now in the responsible hands of our bank person;

the doctor’s secretary (who is a nutter) actually agreed to ask the doctor to renew my annual vitamin D prescription without insisting I make an appointment;

the empty nest is going to be visited for a few days by one of the fledglings;

and a magical moment—when I let Finbar out for his early morning pee, a hind and her two young ones were grazing in the meadow in front of the house.



Through morning mist hanging grey

and faintly shimmering, I

watch the meadow where a shape,

rain-blurred and russet-brown stirs

then another, then three—hind

and her twins cropping the grass,

the only sound falling rain.