Rat holes and molehills.
For The Brent.
Paths eager-trod, slick with rain,
stacked sod in shaggy clumps, like miniature friends,
poking out heads, reeds marking water’s edge.
Teasel in clustered dozens; waving stars fit to harvest,
silence ‘side the lowing day; earth warm, land barren;
dog-walkers, wanderer one.