No fanfare greets your late return,
No chattered dipped inflections,
No yearned for sunny silhouettes.
No, November’s solitary influx
Seeps, a secret spreading stain.
A million marvel migrants fled.
The chilling landscape, flushed you
Fast, by night. Alone. And tracked
From Borat’s best to wet Wales’ West.
Safely here, the epigenetic switch
Flicks, and tuned for far too long,
Outwits the guns, the hawks, the traps.
The too rich flesh, those worm fed breasts,
Compels this prey. Avoids bright day.
Crepuscular, the only way
To fly a chance, and hunker, shy
By day amongst the drab, dropped
Leaves. A scrubby lair, a lie, such
Warmth, the cold rain’s drench
Before the hands click round
And stoppage time draws near,
Reflect. Leave guns behind and
As the woodcock moon swells full,
Make time to stand. Still. Scan the scene,
As Scolopax streak down, dusk brown, to probe.
Still edgy as night falls.
With thanks to Fiona for cleverly merging a couple of my photos for this post, and once again for Gabriel Hemery’s inspiration, and permission to use his poems last time.