In the countryside this morning,
There is heavy cloud cover and a soft drizzling rain.
Beside the water there are flurries
Of birds calling.
Skeins of seabirds wending their way, low key, upriver.
To where, no-one knows?
In the pools left by the ebbing tide
There is barely sufficient weight in the rainfall
To leave telltale circular ripples.
All the same, invisible fry undoubtedly dance
Beneath a miniscus transparently fine.
The wind is breezing in from the south,
Contrarily cold, heralding a skewed winter's debut.
But everything feels skewed this morning
The morning after, like so many other mornings after
When wanton killing has laid its curse upon the innocent.
A lone gull stands guard
Upon the rapidly disappearing pond.
Trudie Shannon
