Woodland Edge Poem by John Rickell

I scratched my way
through the hawthorn thicket
A sunny day and dry
tall course grasses rushes moss,
waiting for the winter’s flood
sure as Christmas Eve.
Jack was on ahead along the narrow tracks
worn by fearful rabbits, rats and mice.
The meadow unkempt and free
bent to the cold May breeze
which carried sweet hawthorn petals
to the city in the north.
We were quite alone.
A diesel whistled, miles away;
a silent Kite on the wind
a meal for chics who soon will find their own.
I thought I heard the heart beats
Stood still to watch the carnage.
Last night I heard the fox and pheasant
saw the silent owl, white tails in alarm;
this is a world I do not know,
took more care in the hawthorn thicket
ignoring scratches on my arm.