I walked all the way from town And it was such a dark night. The moon slipping in and out Of the silent sky, As if it were newly silvered And couldn’t bear to be hidden.
My steps sounding as loud As a snapped branch in the wind, I jumped off the paving Onto the dirt path running by the river, Where, every now and then, Stars sailed in the water and drowned.
I was always told, as a certainty, That the young men marched down here, Heading to where their Lovers And watchful mothers waited. Getting so close to home, Their shadows sparkled on closed doors, Their feet stepping quietly Down the garden path, mostly on the grass, Not to waken those still listening.
The world quivered at such tenderness, Night folding in upon itself, Folding in upon love, adding and multiplying.
The dog barked and the cat Wound around a frill of empty air, And someone in the sleeping house Looked out of a window, There was nothing to be seen.
But, as everyone knows, that didn’t mean No-one was there.
Watching the sudden seagulls in the garden, I wondered what brought them here as we are miles from any seawater. We have had a lot of flooding water but they’re not interested in that. Perhaps it seems a more sympathetic environment but I used to think that if they stayed too long, the magpies would gang up on them. Now, I’m not so sure after reading a whole bunch of storiesof their extreme aggression during these pandemic times. A misty afternoon with seagulls like snowflakes and a ginger cat furious about being kept inside.
ALWAYS OUT THERE
Those seagulls in our garden Are a long way from water. Doing what we all do, I suppose, Looking for a future Just a little bit better.
March Hares Boxing in the middle of the big field. The wide white light of the moon Tearing shadows into fragments Of black and white confetti.
These magical creatures, Owned by witches and wizards, Bring magic with them.
They are the first to see darkness Detach itself from the silent hedgerows. The first to hear hunters Drop to the cold ground, To steal the hare’s likeness For their photograph albums. Greedy to capture the joyful secrets Of wild creatures made of magic, Eyes full of white moonlight, Ears that semaphore night secrets.