Gossamer I broke walking down the morning track,
dew on thorny bushes
shone like Christmas trees.
Pricked my finger, touching one
swore loudly
and a rabbit stopped cleaning its face,
but didn’t hurry off
I had no gun
and knew it could so easily outrun me.

A blob of blood on an index finger
made me think of Jesus’ birthday
and the commercial highlight
we have made out of it.
Still two month away
and to think
that I’m fretting about it.
The rabbit sat
contemplating a fallen leaf,
pretended, that I wasn’t there
and wished that I would leave.