Lesley Saunders


When they came to the place again, it was not itself.
The road had been camouflaged with bines: soft April
explosions of cress and hogweed and oxeye, a bunker

afor muntjac and boar. Perhaps, as they said, the hare
had really leapt out of her breast, screaming as it went,
its huge flamey ears ablaze in the sun: London

razed, the emperor’s brazen head lolling in mud,
run hare run. But the field here’s too narrow, the road’s
heaving with iron and leather and sweat – the hare

zigzags in front of the eagle, wooden wheels trundle
hopelessly forward. (A hail of wild blossom shook
from the trees as the teeth of the harrow bit gold.)

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