Walked a little way down the old train line,
up past where another jackdaw was crushed by a car
last Wednesday
Watched the amber sky bottle itself over the hills,
pour itself into the roots of the ragwort; watched the
magma droplets wriggle up the stems like candlewax;
I saw them climb their brimstone towers
—newborn fires to light the memories of steam
and rusty tracks—and then
tip-toed across the rotten slats before reaching the road
He was laid out on the asphalt
there, antlers sprouting from the dirt like weeds,
head sunk in a bush like he’d died, drunk, in his sleep;
I realised I knew him
—those twin scimitars, that slack face that stared back
through the bracken, buried in bottles—
and I had photos, somewhere. I moved on,
flicked away my wax cocoon; flew
with toxic, crimson wings
into the Sun as its driver sped around the bend