November 9th 2016, Yorkshire, UK.
(The morning after the announcement of the US election campaign results.)
Marking the fields, a broken rib-cage of stones
heft under a thin white fleece, potholes
along the track are traps of milky slip-covers.
I walk on the crisp white lane, wishing
to emboss my prints on unblemished snow.
Before long, I am passing an avenue of trees
that divide two fields. I hear a chittering,
whisperings, a susurration coming from
the beech trees – those who never shed
their brittle leaves even in the slight hand of breeze.
The droppings of snow-melt are flowing through
the branches in a conversation about the news
they do not understand – after all, their knowledge
is limited to this field, on this piece of earth,
under this sky. Judging by their height and girth,
they have been here for a hundred years or more,
shedding their seeds, bearing their snow-loads,
stretching up, and out, broadcasting their one view
to an unknown audience. Now I hear them.
Their wisdom – about time and place and moment.