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.
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