I’d like to spend Easter 2016
bird watching on the Isle of Wight.
I will not be remembering shootings or blood. I will kill no bird.
I will not hunt and I will not cry. On Monday I will set base camp
and patch my tent from the Plough and Stars.

A kindly man will tell me that westerly winds are prevailing and
I should pitch under a large shadowy oak tree and stretch out a
candy-striped wind-breaker across my extraction point.

I will heed his warnings.

I will indulge my Mick and me fantasy behind the furze bush,
then I will wet my lemony green tea behind the shadowy oak tree.

I’d have no trouble shooting people, dressed up in my ghillie suit.
Saving someone is far harder than shooting them dead. Save or shoot?
Roll up! Roll up! Meet ya half way? Any chance of a luck penny? Isn’t war a hoor?
The very best with the power-sharing, though powerful people don’t much like to share.
Good Luck with the hurt-remembering, dead-finding, place-scavenging.

I will slowly sip this tea as penalty.
A punishment, my own gentle firing squad.
I don’t much like lemons, they gash my tongue.
There’ll be no jaw jacking, just supping.

When night falls on the Plough and illuminates the Stars, I will low crawl
from the canvas, I will tell of echo to the Nightjar, share nibbles of shame with some
Woodcocks, the Long-Eared Owl will hoot at me to give over about Victor,
and by dark I’ll delight in a Less-Spotted Woodpecker, knowing she can
damage just gentlygentlygentlyalphabravocharlie tapping
until
the
tree
dies
and
we
can
all
relax
deep
into
the
dark
bark
hole