IN THE PROVINCES 2 Comments

(In Gotland)


From a distance, this was all there was to see,
An undulating landscape assembled in a buzzard's eye,
The bare hills, a track and at the edge of it
A rabbit's foot in the undergrowth, ruffled by the wind,
A well-gnawed ankle-joint that weighed no more
In the hand than a baby bird,
Still moving, still warm, that leapt
Out of the frying pan, bloodied as the prey
Of the grey butcher bird, on the rowan spike -
A little lump of bone beckoning with a flap of fur.

That was all that was left of a rabbit after
The shadow of a wing crossed his path,
After its zigzag dash had been cut off by a claw, its panting
Breath by a well-aimed beak. How comfortless
This death must have been, helplessly splayed
On the wintry earth, the last convulsions.
The sole survivor of the slaughter perched in the boughs,
Which, like bribed witnesses, had no recollection of anything.
The grass, which had long since picked itself up, sees to it
That this was all there was to see, this rabbit's foot.
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