Hundreds ago the lifted rail line was laid
to wait sloped below the cut-less green
today top-noted by a rainy thinning pierce.
Seeming servile, sound from canned tits in trees
their top notes risen, jag half-seconds, half a minute.
APBs at a chosen nutting frequency. Dimped sparkle
on a slept land soaked. The airborne acidic triplets
 buffett nothing but a felt press from a wind
stuffing threatened murmurs to field pockets.
Remnants of a coked wheel rush
or the roustabouts’ hulk and file
but in their mud-knotted
recalcitrant maned darks, three fell ponies
steam forth on a heat-filling existence.
Hooves crash and boards dance for carrot
halves, for that brightening crunch,
suddenly a fettled, feoffed living.
