He laughs to see
the panting stag.
Thinks only of division,
“better than,” hierarchy.
His soul toxified
from reading
the wrong Book.
The hunter will never know
holy brother/sisterhood:
as ancient as the granite.
The leaves drop
like broken umbrellas.
Bird-leg twigs bleed iron.
She carries him downstream,
rushing him over the boulders,
freeing his horns from the gorse.
Doing the opposite of Abraham’s evil,
when the ram was caught in the thicket.
He launches himself onto a bank,
with the last of his strength
Don’t let my vision be stunted
by the hand of Man;
…and canters on.
Watchers everywhere.
The trill of bird-song on the wind.
A crow calls. A magpie responds.
These are my keepers!
Something grey is moving in,
the shadow of the heavens, scudding.
A pigeon flies up to look – old navigator.
A pheasant sounds the alarm.
The staring hollows of your eyes,
will be homes to worms and woodlice.
We do not need you, to adore the flowers.
New trees crack open
the concrete, bricks and mortar.
‘Wheat’ and ‘chaff’
go their separate ways.
The wild boar returns
to eat the beech nuts.
The brock nurses her cubs,
away from the rusting guns.
Fences are down now.
Buildings have become playgrounds
for leverets, bats and cockroaches.
Green jungles spread their shoots
among the stick forests.
The ivy ceases mourning.
Dandelions dance on the lawns.
He longs for the world to turn kind.
For the footsteps to fade away.
For the emptying silence to harmonize.
How old is the earth?
How young is Man!
Heidi Stephenson
Illustration: Claire Palmer
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