When, in the night
I am shaken from sleep by the sound of you
in the kitchen
making music with a pot, some spoons
(I know you cannot sleep
without, first, some noise)
This sound is beloved
and must be, like the badger that watches
from the window, he’s stopped,
he will bring no insects
back to his small den/his small-badger-children
only the smell of the cold
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:
by Robin Robertson
I have been waiting for the black deer
all my life, hidden here in the dark
corner of the wood.
I see glimpses of them, breaking cover,
to erase themselves in the deep trees.
They are implicit there, and will move
only if I hold still.
Though in a dream I have
they stand so near I can feel them breathing.
Then, when I look down
I have disappeared.
Out at the wood's edge, the snorts and coughs of the feeding herd.
A gust startles a lift of leaves, and they
scatter and bound like the far-off heads
of deer in the distance.
The wind drops and the trees are antlered.