Poetry Wednesday

I/Badger

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

you/

listens,

from the window, he’s stopped,

hunting;

he will bring no insects

back to his small den/his small-badger-children

only the smell of the cold

earth.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:

Hide

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,

swinging away

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.