A kestrel quarters the allotment, sees
where the eye may take him.
I too find my bearings
in a wild silence of flood plain,
beyond the hum of land management.
Only the draught through branches
for company. Its fitful swell
and waning at the disguised boundary:
always there must be lawns to mow,
concrete to lay, fences to erect
and guard. A possessed realm.
Even on this dreich day, when time goes back,
it should not be so quiet.
We only know what can be heard:
in sodden woods, where few birds call,
the scrunch of acorns trampled
softly underfoot. A rotten world
until the clocks advance once more.
xi. 2023
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