COunting Dead Rabbits by Rachel Burns

I am not a silent poet

I sit on a bench, surrounded by moorland

and watch the children fly their new toy plane

it is motorized with a propeller, and has red and white wings.

The bench has a plaque dedicated to a son killed in Iraq.

The farmer is burning the heather over the far side

and I can taste smoke like someone else’s grief.

The plane takes off, droning through the air,

nose dives

             bombs

     crashes

               into the heather.

The children pick it up, try again.

The sun is high in the sky and I can see for miles.

The farmhouse looks tiny below, as do pine trees

planted in neat triangles sheltering the cattle from the cold.

The plane takes off, droning through the air,

nose dives

bombs

crashes

into the heather.

A pair of peewits and dive,

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