On our road at dusk I once refrained
from the satisfying snap of a fallen branch underfoot
stepping over it instead, as it slithered away.
Inanimates snaked there too,
like electric leads we no longer uncoil
from the house on the other side
when the shearer comes.
They’ve built more houses further up,
newer ones with solar panels
and earth friendly toilets.
But still not so many cars
as to impede our walks
to restore computer starved circulation,
to the bounce of puzzlements, complaints
and the small joys of our day.
And pangs too. The wallaby we so enjoyed
was, one day, a heap of fallen fur
under inspection by the local crows.
The neighbour’s cow
loud with bovine lament for her calf
lately trucked away to a veal and leather destiny.
And always under the same tree it seems we
exchange a word with old Bill Budd
out with his new pup and the daily unstiffening of knees.