The Eyes of a Pine Marten

looking into the eyes of a pine marten

there was no holding of gaze

there was no recognition of shared experience

there was no deep time

there was me looking at you looking at me

there was an instant and then moving on

there was no evident fear

but no inclination to remain

there was a life lived at a different pace to mine

there was metabolic urgency

sure, I’d longed for that moment for decades

and I will recall you for many of your lifetimes

but you had no reason to remember me

and your interest was fleeting

in a being that could be nothing but a threat

Supermarket Sketch: Tune

“Sorry,” I say, the nose of my trolley

  having grazed the side of hers.

“Sorry,” she counters, as if she had

  any reason to proffer regret.

It’s like the hollow metallic clank of collision

  triggers an apology reflex in us

or chimes the first note of some primeval tune

  summoning us to dance an excuse-me.