May morning encounterA mallard wobbled through the bluebells this morning.
I sunned myself on the slatted bench and watched him.
Dabbing in the long grass, he scattered rain-beads,
his glossy green head twisting so dark wary eyes
tracked every move of my smoking-hand. I stood up
slowly and he squawked heavily across the fence.
I heard him plopping into next-door's pond and wished
he'd stayed a little longer. The story of my life.