A shadow of pale wings lands
on the latticed fence by the Poubelle
just as chance would have us
alight in Charolles as evening falls.
In the half-light they stir the silence, pale silhouettes
close by as we pitch tent beneath the ash
and willow, alongside the pond where
in starlight frogs will blow and bellow.
The coffee percolator purrs and through
the close night-air these other-worldly cries
carry across field and fence to tell us
we are hee-er, hee-er, hee-er,
our journey’s end, as much chosen
as if we ourselves had made the choice.
previously published in Northwords Now
and Child’s Eye