Dawn light comes muffled,
cloying and lilac tinged
with a chill edge.
There are chevrons of beating wings
above blanketed fields,
Rippled clouds like sand
as the tide recedes.
Ebb and flow of dawn mist
making remoteness more so.
Pheasants strut,
confront each other,
feathers erect.
Spar, circle combatively, play act,
then retreat,amiably,
back to their bush together.
Today's performance complete.
There's a tree,
by my bedroom window,
without a straight line,
twisted and gnarled.
It's foliage bends and hangs
like feather boas.
At the top is an
inescapable shape made
by a clump of boa-like
twisting,forking limbs.
It forms a silhouette
of a 50s "New Look" model,
haughty,nose in the air,
however much the wind blows.
Her hat a "Moulin Rouge" headdress,
breeze ruffled, arched swan's neck
atop a stick body, thin,swathed in
moulting foliage.
Veins of filigree twigs criss cross
the alabaster skin sky.
Twisted aorta forks, branches
to capillaries.
An armature stripped back.
Still proud and elegant.
Hares bounce boldly,
with invisible pursuers.
No hiding place until their coats change.
Against the white canvas the
secret world of hedgerows
and acres revealed.
Low morning sun emphasizes
furrows old and new.
Undulations of the past revealed
and the model's hat is
ermine edged.
I struggle with mine and
everyone else's anxiety.
The ice in my fingertips reflecting
arctic chill in head and heart.
I'm wanting to hide again,
frozen by fear,
not acting on my own advice,
afraid for the future.
Not living by my creed,
ashamed, guilty, powerless,
alone, inadequate.
