Requiem for small Brown Bat A soft, crumbled thing lay at chapel entrance. I thought it the desiccated head of a fallen rose. But I picked up a tiny, brown bat, wings folded, head bowed in death. It had whizzed through Vespers. I wondered whether it found a home under this timbered roof. Poor, wee thing. I carried it carefully down the cloister, put it to earth by the kitchen door, pondered how many fragile things have died in chapels, grieved for them all.
Posted on: Sun, 09 Nov 2014 17:06:22 +0000
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