A nightjar will come,
churr at an intruder
and your heart spawns
an eldritch fear in familiar woods.
You had forgotten the nightjars.
This solstice day, you celebrate,
observe from dawn ancient ordered rites
but even then, you feel a sham,
hamstrung by the Underground,
the day off work, the nagging urge of time.
The churr, unidentified,
alone in the trees,
left you to bleed.
Judith Green has had various successes in Myslexia and in major competitions, notably, the Wells. She contributes to Macmillan Educational Anthologies and teaches creative writing.Recently disabled, she finds writing an escape that dissipates the anger and frustration