Death in the dark.

It happened in the night

as the golden owl glided by

and the scuttling of tiny mice

scrabbling in the earth for food.


The flowers slept and the trees

were quiet. The swollen stream

washed their roots and the rain

rolled down in rippling rivulets.


The silent drifting by of a fox,

its mouth clamped close around the

dying body of a farmer’s fowl

slipped by stirring the grasses.

It came through unseen and

a shell shaped bomb biting its

teeth, thumped down trashing 

the branches of a bewildered beech.


The sound stole the air and then

filled the quiet with violence

and its vile opinion

that its self importance was


the decree of men and women.

who sent it forth to murder

and maim. And its life over

the woodland sticks its dead


branches and mud flung oaks

out in desperation, reaching out

for the desecration in prayer

for a place



now nowhere.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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