Notice a February field,
horse-hair silver, braided
under pink coverlet of moon.
Beyond, a fringe of cloud
slung low, like underskirts
reveals a fawn, unsteady
on his legs, unready,
still, to navigate
the stiffened curls of earth.
Surely, soon, the way of things
will have it, that he’ll walk,
and then careen across
A glide of sky.
The real question is, whether
anyone will notice.
York St John Pollination Project 