Tuesday, 18 February 2014


The earth is black, where
the fire has got to it,
scorched and bruised
where match and lighter fluid

A mess. Dead and barren,
smoking still, awful in the
English late summer sun. Sadness
hangs in the thick, pungent
air, for a livelihood laid waste.

A field once bright and rich with
life, rent asunder by careless youth,
lies lifeless now, outside the window,
behind his house. He sets a stony
face against his ruin, but he is
caught unawares by something

A heron. There’s no reason for this
bird in an inland island of dashed hope,
standing one leggedly, out of place and
lost. He laughs, before he can stop
himself, and stares for a full silent
five minutes, at the misplaced animal

until its wings swing wide, and white
and surprising in their big, open span,
unfazed by the death beneath its

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