Absense

Snow on the road. The drifts like waves
high on the banks have filled the verge
and spilled over. A line of beech, and one of firs,
their branches sagging with the weight.
One of them breaks and echoes like
a gunshot muffled far away.
Silence returns. A windless white.
There by that patch of darker ground
where wind has blown the newer snow
off frozen moss and wisps of stubble
a nest has fallen to the floor.
The light crust’s broken through to powder
there where the paws have left their bowls
in an erratic hieroglyph, weaving.
No blood.


Published in 'The Like of It' Baring & Rogerson 2005