dusk in the copse is foggy, and after rain there's
mud, so you watch your step as rubber
boots kick life into the mess.
lights the ploughed churning, or stars sputter at such
perfect mire, it harks instead at
mad trenches, branches
dripping onto brambles sharp as barbed wire.
can worms survive this clay or do
gills get jammed as mouths and rifles did, each
wound cauterised by an organic poultice? Its
not mangrove-swamp but
enough to quell sparks, spirit even flame.
that's what was a
fledgeling at my feet, a chocolate soldier now.
back in the warm kitchen, a tap dribbles but
there's no bromide in this mug of tea