wyatt’s diary
From melancholy I fled into the wood. What plants could offer solace? Enchanter’s nightshade Was foisting withered berries like a stage apothecary. What time was it? Midnight, and the anxious owl.
The mise en scène was almost reassuring In its chill familiarity. Stepping back to avoid a shadow I trod on a mandrake. And looking up at the full moon Was rewarded by the sight of two marsh harriers
Flying high, playing and tumbling in courtship Tossing a half dead mouse one to the other High in the air. With a light heart I looked round for my secretary:
‘That is me, tossed between Love and Death, Harrington.’ I struggled back through a thicket, careful not to spoil my clothes.
12
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