For Jan
There were no bears that Easter.
In any case, the cake shop was closed
and Graham was loaded for quail.
He made a fort out of Victoria sponges,
muzzle poking between creamy tiers,
sights trained on the letterbox.
Any quail entering through that tantalising rectangle
would be his - this year, he was sure of it.
He ate an eclair
and blew on the lure he'd bought on Ebay.
A great roar echoed through the meringue.
Graham frowned.
The door to the cake shop filled with shadow.
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