A goose got loose from Cold Harbour Farm and got lost
in Rookery Wood, possibly confused by the bitterly cold wind
a vixen-fox followed the webbed footsteps in the frost
starving for hot flesh, sweet blood and juicy bones, for thick-quilled skin
Amidst the tympani of falling canopy debris
that accompanies every blow of this whistling wind
the melancholic robin flutes a sombre symphony
a magical madrigal,
a sibilant soliloquy,
an hypnotic, melodic, elegiac hymn
A tawny owl mimics the screech of St. Eligius’s lych gate
every time he shrieks from deep within
the ‘Private: No Entry!’ high-walled Chaucer estate
that’s oft-flooded by the Orm’s fogs, spilling in over the brim
Drew Smith - Writer & Doodler 