Poetry- Deborah Harvey


Your father in his fawn windcheater
names the song of each bird we hear
points out fox holes and fungi,
pulls to one side an elder branch
explains how those dollops of blossom
became this darkening fruit.

As he lets go the branch swings back
like the beams of cranes overhead
building conference halls, brand new departments
or the CCTV in these MOD car parks
that monitor visitors, trespassers,
swivelling on their plinths.

Splatts Wood presses up against its fence
like a rescue dog ...


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