The morning’s walk

The morning’s walk unearths the sodden hare, stuck in a second’s frozen

stillness before the swing of my huge whistle

dislodges it and the collared dog’s just

caught as a whiff triggers her all

a-quiver in anticipation of the chance of a chase.

Then three heifers, looking askance,

dance towards us like curious girls at a circus,

skittish. Later, on the shore, the deal trunk half

submerged gives the illusion of a human

head bouncing in the water and the dog

tracks it, hunting with lifted paw, while I walk on, amused.

A concrete post stumped into the bouncing bog

beneath the sand and I wonder how

much of what is now submerged was once

good, contested land. The geese lift, disturbed, and fly into the strong wind

low and slow, looking for sanctuary. They dip down over me into

a field, heeling themselves airward.

Up through the red ash of the turf, the rubble, the dark

windows of holiday homes, hoodies settled on telegraph

poles, the incessant wind, bring rain and the sea on its raw

breath, and I grit my teeth, determined to deal with addictions,

debts, and grievances with equal vigour, chafing at memories of blistering

rows. I recovenant with the ripped air.

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