Richard Lambert

The Deer

In the summer fields your life left you. She ran out from under the hood of your heart and tottered across tarmac on clippy-cloppy hoofs like a teenage girl in heels.

No time to notice the strange evening light, the sun low down on the green high crops, only time to brake and watch her go first one way then the other, undecided

at the sight of your wide, loud car; alien, yes, off-white and wild; you glimpsed her on a patch of burned waste ground a farmer must have scorched for a reason, and passed.


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