Roy Marshall

Roy Marshall’s spring

Wessex Wood

A perfect diversion, to leave the lane and step
under this canopy, to follow the stream
and find bluebells, scroll-headed ferns,
yellow primrose at the mossy roots of trees;
then a sudden stench, and here, a Fox,
some days dead, coat slackened, eye sockets
picked clean; death has come to steal a breath
from the mouth of spring.


I tread carefully over tarmac and grass,
cup treasure in my palms, leave
playtime behind;
she stands in the doorway, hand on hip,
my approach long since noted
in her regular sweep.
‘The baby bird will die,’ she says,
‘its mother will leave because of your scent.’
I tip it, warm and blue, into the nest,
walk to the classroom, my face hot and wet,
the world off kilter

Roy Marshall lives in Leicestershire where he works in adult education. His poems have appeared in many publications in the UK and Ireland and been featured in ‘Poems in The Waiting Room,’ New Zealand.
Roy blogs at