I hate the
sound of a
rabbit, at
night, screaming
in the jaws
of a fox.
But I can’t
hear the fox
cubs crying
with hunger.
I hate the
sound of a
rabbit, at
night, screaming
in the jaws
of a fox.
But I can’t
hear the fox
cubs crying
with hunger.
The Choughs
are back
doing some
gardening for
me, and the
sight of their
ungainly walk
and their happy
family warms
the cockles of
my cold winter
heart.
Once I saw
on the ground
under trees
blue fragments
of a small
egg. But were
they from an
egg that fell
or one that
had hatched?
I didn’t
know just what
I should feel.
Plumes of smoke
on a cold
Winter’s day
bring thoughts
of warmth and
community
and human
busyness and
achievement.
Plumes of smoke
on a hot
Summer’s day
bring thoughts
of destruction
and terror
and loss and
anger and
failure.
Birds in pairs,
galahs,
magpies,
rosellas,
butcher birds,
crows,
peewits,
birds in pairs,
thinking of
Spring.
“Listen to those
contented cows
mooing. Oh I love
the sounds of
the country” they
say as they drive
past a black herd
in a green field.
Not seeing,
on the other
side of the road,
black calves,
separated
just last night
from their mothers.
Who are crying
in pain and fear
trying to get
their babies back.
Sensing that their
future lies in
a terrifying
truck journey
and then the
cutting of throats.
The white horse
on the far
green hill
moves all day
to a rhythm
all her own,
following
clues in the
pasture and
the hill shape
and the changing
shadows from
the trees,
and some days,
for no reason
I know, he
doesn’t
appear at all,
and I hope
she is all right.
He has no
interest
in my rhythms.
The Butcher Bird
singing,
beautifully,
from the old
dead tree
this morning,
doesn’t know about
coronavirus.
The human race
is in the
position the
dinosaur race
was in some
25 years
before the
impact of the
Chicxulub
meteor.
One lonely
Wedgetail
Eagle
in a tree,
along came two
more and then
there were three.