Badger


Badger, the sun has scarred your head
scorching light onto your face with two stripes;
you are a creature of the night, the dark, the

sunless earth. Sniffing at the skin of a wood
and field. Hearing the hoot of an owl
passing by the library feet of the dog fox.

The moon shadows are yours to sneak through
rhino trample your way into the hours of night.

But why don't you come out into the day?

Show us your feet, that leave claw marks in the
snow. You are the plane trail from last nights
journey, scraping at insect filled soil

sucking worms that hide in the crumpled earth.
But why don't you catch them in the day?
Badger! You have the rays of the sun on your

head, surely that means you are wanted, needed?
Nothing is more footle than being in the dark
your life will be better I assure you;

My friend, Badger, come on out in the day
walk amongst us, beside us, into us;

Leave the dark and come out into the light.

But, then again, (sigh) I see your point.





They Think the Wood is Theirs


They think the wood is theirs.
In the daylight of falling leaves
and flaking sun. The pupil sharp black
black as winter, black as death.

The trees do their best to ignore such goings on.
They stand in the firing line, nervous and obedient.

Before a ruffle of leaves and a crunch
of summers light that lingers in the veins of each leaf.

Men come with quiet steps as if in respect of the trees.
Trying their best to make out their friends with
the wood.

They think the wood is theirs.

A running, sniffing, wagging tail dog
searches. Hoping to make one spring
out, as the men wait, wait and wait.

Then a 'BANG!' 'BANG!'
one drops to the earth and the ejaculation of the
bullets drip a smile from the men
They think the wood is theirs.

Landrovers sit like hearses waiting to carry
away the carcass of a pheasant. They are
take away ambulances bringing food to a table.

They think the wood is theirs.

But when they go home, a wind of nattering goes
through the trees, and I hear a sigh of a crashing leaf.



​

Sparrowhawk


I am the splitter of clouds that hang too low
slicing the air with each beak thrust
sending out a tone with every drum flap;

shivering the hearts of tits and finches.
I ignore the buzzards and owls of the night
I am above them, faster, a flesh eater of time.

An owl will eat in one shot, a buzzard will
chew and rip. But I gorge and spit, blood drips
from me like sweat off the brow.

The sky is me, the field is me, the flicker of
trees is me. I am a cloud, a drop of thunder.
Birds that mingle, daydream, doze their way

through life are mine too. I am a sparrowhawk
crashing through life, released by the palm of
my creator. I see no end, no remorse, I feel

no sorrow. The dainty flight of a new born,
the courtship dance, are mine to devour.
I am the pursuer, just like you.