it could be the automatic fire of multiple killings;
at the same time, jets reverberate in the sky to
attack other hushed places of a Sunday morning.
Where I sit is safe, listening to this as intangibles
of what seems the gist from farmers and friends
slaughtering rabbits beyond the rim of East Hill.
When the roar of aircraft fades and guns lull too
there is time to adjust to quieting clues:
one plane joins other vapour streaks across the sky,
a distant sound of tourists heading home - or off
on holidays abroad where foreigners are tolerable.
But when silent on the Hill there’s little surprise
by what I hear in the taunting from further beyond.