Badger / The Green Bird

Badger

He’s there, by the side of the road,

head facing away from it, in

the direction he was going

His chin rests on the edge of the ditch

nestled in nettles,

just covering his right eye

but I can see it’s closed

the closest thing we have

to a bear

muscular, low to the ground,

neck lost in powerful shoulders

feet smaller than you would expect

No sign of any major injury

little blood,

which means

he probably died from a broken leg,

a glancing blow

to the side of his solemn head,

which gradually the flies

came and buzzed around,

sensing the end

sensing death, his eye

swirling in mute panic, or maybe 

still

and black back breathing

up and down, calm and resigned.

Around, the houses

sit smugly at the end of

long white fenced gravel paths, splayed

on the fields like crusted cow shit.

The thick fluttering of a flag

and a bright white face

at a narrow window.   

October 2011

The Green Bird 

There was a small bird, green,

and the apple tree was his favourite.
He sat all chest and feet
on the branch like a tear in a page.

The apples changed and grew,
they fell and moulded
And we gathered the elderflower
to make you a potion to lift your heart

I don’t know if the green bird watched us
but once we had skeletoned
the tree of its flower he flew,
and it was beginning to get dark.


Late Summer 2009