THE WARREN

Brushwood snaps. A step. Nobody.
The pines relax. A rabbit continues
Nibbling its pressed grass hideout
In a field corner. It trusts its listening.

A woodpigeon humps in an oak's barred
Chamber, like a shell. Crack. A step.
A pheasant chick limbs it through a clearing.
Cottage smoke mimes look-out, reassures.

The oat field, as the weeks pass, forgets
Its drill of grooves, straggles at the edge.
Nights together it lies upholstered in moonlight.
The trees deepen from tenderness to content

But the trigger-finger in the rabbits' bodies
Tenses while they sunbathe, straight-eared.
If a broom pod bursts, no serious alarm
...