Morning persists with the bright fragility
of a bubble, transient perfection. Herons
have a characteristic stance, so does Gail,
in the road weeding her verge, bottom
scanning the sky, straight-legged she plucks
at the ground. Rob Lewis is out concreting
his well-flogged scrap of soil, gruff
Good Mornings reluctantly traded, head
down again. Blue car bowls intently
along, throws back sunlight at me,
hapless driver waves companionably
as she’s passengered onward. Who?
Friendliness is easy from her capsule world.
The field’s been cut, then. Buzzard watches,
digesting, eyes out for seconds. Thoughts
fill the next how-long, opening only for
a generous robin – robins are necessary,
really. The house with the dogs greets me
with heavy artillery barks and a hail
of small-arms yaps, one an announcement,
the other a frenzied panic attack. Peace
brothers, relax. At the widowed oak I turn
and walk back. These hours before death,
spend now, later be mugged.