A cold morning and a fresh walk.
The buzz, and unaccustomed flies come first.
Death is everywhere in the fields, hidden by life.
But here, as sometimes, it is near at hand.
Fiercely present at first,
But then
Winter
Next week, a year.
A cold morning and a fresh walk.
Stillness and beauty
And The joy of living everywhere
[There are pictures to accompany this walking poem. Written while approaching, recognising, and leaving the corpse of a rabbit on the bridleway. Not the same rabbit encountered two days later: Walking Poem 2018-09-26 The Fly]