The wind plays make-believe, pokes fun,
with all that escaped polyethylene.
A small black bag that one held lightbulbs
frisks down the path;
wrapping from pillows clings to the hedge –
bedraggled heron who’ll still be there
when the feathers moulder in landfill.
The wind conjures wraiths
of creatures now gone; creates species
that might have evolved here, if their ghosts
hadn’t preceded them. Here’s bunting
from a summer fête; doves
in the act of taking flight;
prayer flags to an unknown deity.
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