Fawn by Rosie Driffill

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.