though the summer was not much.
There is a squirrel in the shaded garden.
At the top edge of the land
crunch in the copse arms.
The white tan dog bounds
over the disordered grass
that is swallowing up the rabbits
and the gates.
Here she stamps,
following behind with a novel in her hand
and the slow steps of a town bred farmer
with stock to check.
Clobby droppings of the brock,
those illadvised blackberries
seeding his latrines.
The smell of bog and bracken,
foxes and ferns.
In the scrub quiet it beats fast
of a low hart
and her terrified blood.
Pigeons shiver into a warm sky.
Streamflies fat in the estate pats.
Grass like rivers,
too thick to solve,
pours over everything.
I am but what I am none cares nor knows
the trees sigh and repeat those woes
all those rows of roots
and disintegrating leaves.
The terrier finds out the
in their shaded bunker of dust.
In the skinny bushes
they blink at insects:
boulders of folded knees and
She picks the thorns out of her legs
while she is stooped
to look in every sleepy brown eye
for the white harbingers of blindness.
The novel swells through touch;
The brambles surge.