Walking Speed

People drive to beauty spots,
speeding past old country walks,
wanting bins and coffee shops.

They miss so much as they pass me by,
thinking Nature must be far away.
But no one’s sooner there than I.


I cluck my tongue.
The vixen stares.

An open window
and fifteen feet between,
man and fox exchange a look.

She’s unafraid
though she runs from cars,
a mystery
only she can solve.

I’ve introduced myself.
We have an understanding.
She returns to the shadow world.
I close the window.


That bumble-bee
is meant for me;
he ricochets
off his delays.

He loads a rose –
right in he goes;
I rest and wait
and guess my fate.

A dream’s a fool
and earth is cruel;
the skylark folds;
the blackbird scolds.

The rose takes aim
to kill or maim –
he buzzes past –
my luck can’t last.