The snake in the grass was quietly
leaving, its passage a ripple barely
seen on the seed-green surface
covering its flight. That it was a mighty
opponent in any earth-bound battle
seemed not to deter an unpretentious
parting, an illusory conceding the field.
In the air birds of prey faltered and
wheeled in their ceaseless soar,
seeing a meal, reeling in tight
turns to terrorise a victim whom the
dice were surely loaded for. And I,
– I stood at the edge of the field,
wore the wig, and decided.
© I.D. Carswell 2007
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