Bert can manage
The social worker’s fingers flick a pen lid.
Can you make a sandwich, cup of tea?
Jean does all that stuff, says Dad.
How about hygiene, do you wash yourself?
She’s Jean, say hi to her.
Dad’s bandaged fingers angle towards Mum.
The heel of his hand contours his unshaven face.
Questions about his hearing, what happens
when he falls. Thirteen sections of biro,
Dad knows the score’s not even.
I think you do need a bit of help Bert.
Yes, perhaps I do need Jean to do more.
But I bet I could beat you at table tennis.
Evening sheep compose a meadow
Bleats ensemble at the folds of the slope,
a quaver of insects buzz in lengthened air.
Branches of willow string time-signatures in puddles,
fiddleheads of ferns unfurl into bars of green beat.
At the edge of the field, the last fronds
unroll, poco-a-poco,
and the orchestra of crickets master a concerto.
Moon-eyed sheep fleece into night’s fold.
Flight of the dragonfly 