The hare

A little loose. Like a soft toy
sewn on where it’s lost it’s stuffing. 
Magpies showing 
zero respect

You sketched our field
with straight line speed.
Sent my blood coursing,
bounding. The hearts’ pounding
now stopped. In a beat.

A car I think. 
A scrape in the verge.
Your final form neverlasting. 

All this at Easter. No resurrection. 
No headstone. No graveside grieving. 
But a single tulip, this reedy
stem outstripping the long grass to
a mouth wide open.
Screaming. 

Before the petals 
dropped. 
And the black and white leaves fell from the lung trees 
clacking and hopping.