You could say our exile
never ended—though we
can’t say where it began.
Cowslips mark the place
where the fence broke
under the weight of a thing
that isn’t here now,
though we can see
what direction it came from
and where it went.
You can more or less tell
by the droppings in the soil
if the animal is one
that might answer
to the call of a tether,
or if it bellows back
at the blood of the moon.
One sniffs the air
and bolts at the first
hint of smoke. Another
paws at the ground,
rearing its head
for the charge.
In response to Via Negativa: Temps perdu.