Frozen
in your deathly contortions
on the tarmac
In the half-light thrown by streetlights
and a gentling pre-dawn sky
you look like a victim of Vesuvius
though their last howls of pain
were plastered over; yours is right there

What put you there?
Did the night rain’s lashing
drive you from that tree
into the path of a motorised enemy?

Will someone lift you from that road?
or is this the final indignity
for a designated enemy
of the conservation estate?

Who put you there?
Who thought it made sense
to bring you to this country
from their land of plenty
to be an outcast?

i.m. Banjo (2007-2025)

Perched
on the brink
Just where the lawn dives abruptly downhill
he sits
close to where the ascending sun
casts the shadow of the magnolia tree
onto the dew-glistened grass
Winter is winding down
Spring is coiled
and his beige fur shines
as he surveys the sun-washed valley
turning now and then to our voices
his old man bark held back
as the sun warms his brittle bones
Bliss