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SPARROW HAWK

your rifle rests cold

as we wrap you round in your

rabbit-lined great coat

There was a great coat in grandmother's attic. Was it from the first or second world war? Someone had lined it with rabbit fur, for those who'd been on watch along the mined sands at Drigg or St Bees.

Preserved in the curtain-less attic among dry geraniums, overwintering, the coat covered the bed of whoever must sleep up there, looking out for stars, listening for creakings on landings.

The coat rests, the wearer half forgotten now, but in deep night, grief palpable still.

I remember the depth of this golden blackward fur, that almost drowned me.




October 27, 2014

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