Mike Barlow
Trespasser
He’d always had a straying instinct,
a tendency to lose the most well-beaten path,
find bog and moving scree
or wade knee deep in a tide of heather.
Stopping to read the feathers of a kill
or listen to the tinnitus of larksong,
he’d find himself alone
and far from any bearing he’d set out on.
Then, should he catch a dog’s bark on the wind,
the shout of men with guns,
he’d close his eyes, imagine taking off
with the whirr and clack of grouse,
come alive on the lift of air,
even though they had him in their sights.
Page(s) 57
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