Isle of dogs.
Bloodied canines on the canine pack,
reared for attack, sacking rabbit cities
subterranean and hopeless,
uncountable in size and breadth,
swarthy by the brindle striped armour,
foreign to pull, call or whistle,
appeasing death and order by the nip
and the lunge.
Curved at the tail like a fleshy sickle,
crossing swamp, pond or brackish breach,
to reach doe, foe and stranger;
the colourless land, sallow in winter
ice and frost, then gorse and moss,
bitches with new plentiful litters,
taught by the hunt.
Rotting willow, oak, slump by the camp,
delicate streams, full of life
down to an overgrown embankment,
crows on the take, waiting stern;
ready the eye, pricked, the ear,
in the queer thick of fog, or grey cascade,
a hail of harks, hurried barks, and onward.