Deborah Harvey
It happens in a moment, like the one between not hearing
a nearby stream and hearing it. It’s evening, you notice
the sound, take a step back and lose it. One step forward and
there it is again, clear in the dark, except this time it’s mid-
afternoon, mackerel sky and a gap between blackthorn bushes,
the first chiffchaff singing a spring in which thousands will die
and I’m standing in disbelief in a field half a mile from where
I’ve lived all my life without knowing it existed. And I have to
wonder, was it there before I took that step? And if I step
back, will it disappear?