dusk in the copse is foggy, and after rain there's

mud, so you watch your step as rubber

boots kick life into the mess.

no rainbow

lights the ploughed churning, or stars sputter at such

perfect mire, it harks instead at

mad trenches, branches

dripping onto brambles sharp as barbed wire.

can worms survive this clay or do

gills get jammed as mouths and rifles did, each

wound cauterised by an organic poultice? Its

not mangrove-swamp but

enough to quell sparks, spirit even flame.

that's what was a

fledgeling at my feet, a chocolate soldier now.

back in the warm kitchen, a tap dribbles but

there's no bromide in this mug of tea