est cloud gathering ith rain growing steadily worse; et day for most.
Against clouds hatched in charcoal grey, bruising with deep purple, a bird flies, turning slow with easy progress
down above fields stitched below with hedgerows, holly, oak
edged with dead nettle.
The bird turns its glide downwards towards a huddle of trees; in its beak, something blue. A scrap of sky. The bird dips and shortly rises in the leaf breeze with wings outstretched, up in an arc that falls down onto the highest branch, feet clutching at rough alder bark. It rests there, blue fabric
hanging from beak, shaking wings and fluffing feathers against the storm. Hopping through branches and leaves, it settles in its arboreal cot. Stabs of beak push and knit blue cloth into the weave and weft of its nest. Cataract blink over black eye and it is done. My eyes follow the branch on which it sits to the bole of the tree, bark patterned with moss and bearded lichen and then downwards to the ground where the roots that stand proud, meet me, where I sit. At my feet, through moss and leaf mould, an ant fidgets its scamper over leaves browned and old along under the cover of the crown
high, high above. Rising up a fungus gnawed stump it disappears into rubbish strewn nettles. An outdoor/indoor scene of burnt chair, burnt cushion, stained,
unstuffed duvet and charred coat get wet in the rain. No windows to open to let out the smoke. No blistered paint, yellowed photographs, books unreadable and crisp. No photographs holidays, gran
unboxed by firemanâ€™s boot, or cat outside, too scared of inside. No one crying. Â