(For Henry Vaughan; for all of us)

As a snail pulls vulnerable flesh from view,

a spider draws her knees right up inside a wall,

a hedgehog rolls herself into a jagged ball,

retreat has been imperative for you:

it means survival. 

When your world has changed

beyond recognition; when you last used what voice

you thought you had, and duly registered your choice

on ballot or battlefield, power exchanged

into the hands you did not trust.

You fear

the future, for these young things you hold dear,

for the generation you toil to rear.

Yet, I’ve heard of a freshness deep down things,

an invisible essence that still brings

the sunlight of morning, borne on bright wings.