Caught you, as moorhens squabble on the bank, and the evening sun sun-splay ripples of a lake settled between East and former West, where I sit, take three puffs of a cuban before breaking the dried cigar into three to throw into the lake, the rise and call of father and son,
mallards dropping heavily to land, to worry some larger bird. The sun in reflection sets, a burn shimmer afterimage. My dog, settled to keen after a badger who lives between East and West, at least, I guess, by the bite and fall of trees.What does a badger know of no man’s land? Just stemming and basking in work, and the making whole of hard rains, swelling the storm drains that carry away the set, make hard the cross, put the holy ghost of herons to flight. That night is not this night, and so young moor hens dive, perfect their strain.