Under an April moon the tussocky field
abounds in rabbits. Its hedgerows are sprinkled
with blackthorn blossom creamy in moonlight.
Dark green poplars border the canal
beside the field. Daylight exposes,
behind a hedge, discarded technology:
a wheel-less tractor propped up on breeze blocks.
A troika of Russians on a narrow boat
sings plangently of the motherland.
Sudden rain sweeps across the poplars.
It turns to hail on the rusted tractor;
silences the song; shreds white petals;
rolls down a rabbit hole.