The soaring eagle does not admire the view.
It spears through the beauty,
lazered on its prey.
It knows nothing of God
or Capability Brown;
the precision of its wings
appreciated only by man,
the imitator.

A suburban garden conceals a coiled spring;
deadly swift arc of hunter.
The terrified scampering creature,
destined for fatal play,
is not aware of an alter ego
curled before the fire;
a woman offering a saucer of milk.

The snail is deaf to the music of the thrush;
the thrush, blind to the architecture of the snail.
We alone, admire the view,
share the pain.
We, the graceless,
the imperfect,
if we choose,
walk in another’s shoes.

© Marion Sharville

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