dawn craft and a down-wind’. ‘While my riming’,
murmurs John Clare, ‘obliges a simpler psalm.
I cannot sing for my breakfast when ravening’.
They paw the grass aside, then slide askew
like stoats slinking sidelong toward their prey
before the wide mouths of the warren’s holes.
Bucks bite, dash, stamp, scrabble and scuffle.
Kittens suckle under dozing, sun-stunned does.
whistles the Gypsy, raising the rifle sight to his gaze
while chewing softly on the stalk of a wildflower.