5.5.2014 – sitting in the heather
Blind to the flitting of finch
Blind to the heather and the wet leafed spring
Behind, backdrop deep,
A arching curtain of birch
Irregular pine sprawling with shadows beneath its boughs
Beyond there, watchful and still
Peering sentinel like,
A spectre that lurks with intent
He is the uncertain, the feared truth,
The dead standing among the new born.
The charcoal tower of burned birch.
And I see the bloody nose beetle walk across my palm