Farms are spewing ash in
green flecks under bracken bales:
it is rain and this is wet
which alters our man’s gait: heavy
limbs clutch accountant’s files; between bank
and peat grave, he’ll make a little bread.
Sheep will fleece a fell and brook ~
shall strip this hill of trust, at best,
sewn into cloud; follow across
our antique paths.
What pains the girl in cleaver meat,
and casts the larks to breeze, flame kites
to poisoned slab,
above the shot and empty barn.