[for Samuel on his 15^th birthday]

A woodlouse makes its way

Through the jungle of the grass.

Past sunlit drops of dew. And daisies.

Bees are abundant on forget-me-nots.

It is high spring and Death locks down the land.

The mind is autumn, turning winter.

The dawn is the head of a horse.

Its flaring nostrils, the wind.

Its bloodshot eye, the sun.

It knows it is to be sacrificed.

When the sun and moon have set,

The fire gone out and all voices stilled,

There remains a lamp. So says the forest teacher.

Is there a song no nightingale can match?

A breath too deep for us to feel its touch?

The woodlouse crawls past fading drops of dew.

April 2020

John Drew has lived on

both sides of the Himalayas.