The dints of last week’s walk

still scar the turf

a white scratch

which raised sparks

last Sunday

a scrape, a scuff of ill planned heel

on rock.

The frog had gone,

an obscenity of frogspawn in it’s place

gazing blandly up

with a thousand jelly eyes.

The hare

was still there

the long thigh bones

the scraps of fur

an eye, black and shiny and congealed with flies last Sunday

empty this one,

not a bit of meat remained.

Stopping. Shielding eyes from  the sudden glare of sun-out-of-cloud

we saw a line

of Minis

stretched along the road,

Something solemn,

funereal

despite the Smartie colours

car on car on car

forty or so

when they had processed from sight

and a hen harrier

arcing above the ragged crows

caught our attention

the sudden stillness

and the silence

but for the wind in rushes.

But for the ticking of a pipit.

But for the baleful growl of a Pheasant, nesting low,

made me catch my breath

like an ice cold gulp of water.