An antique blanket
the colour and shape of lapwing
is flung over a ragged hedge
or so it seems
hanging down, knitting a background
for the winter sun
Further back the impatient reeds shift
from foot to foot
and we look for the marsh harrier
in vain: he has better things to do
and secret places to be
As the shadows blacken
a chinese water deer
strolls across an accidental clearing
forgetting for a moment
the harshness of reality
We stay hidden, and a barn owl pays us
an unexpected visit
white against the scintillating sky