Rachel Fenton lives and writes in Auckland, New Zealand.

Them With No Answer
By Rachel Fenton

We went to Wentworth
remembering walking estate as kids
with grandparents long since
dead, whose daughter said ‘Aye,’
with nod of head and set herse on first bench
to light up, jiggered
from crossing car park,
she would watch us.

Down far end, beyond trees and roses
was gateway to old grounds—
now we had to pay

quids to mooch through yew
maze, over faster than quick

crossword on puzzle page o’ ladies’ mag
then through stone
archway guarded by stone man
worn faceless and generic by weather’s clout
hereabouts over years,
to see a paddock full-as-a-cover-spread
o’ deer. Not one more
than a twelve-month, judging by antler
nubbins on their heads.

But size of muscle in those legs
that could turn at a clap
with synchronicity o’ fish
before hitting fence and staring back.

What nah then?

And leaving them with no answer
we had, to follow path
past beds,

mulched with weeding underway—
lass and barrow doing heavy work—

to water feature—a series of concrete
troughs, interlinked, offering great
crested newts a place to bath,
do business like emperors, but no escape.

Then clapping drew us up:
mam, grey plume for a wrap, robes, hat . . .
                                         a murmuration
                                         of cig smoke,

nebbing over the old wall,
dear bird.