Sunken Lane In Suffolk
Hollow way – an old place
for badgers to slide,
for the yaffle to laugh.
Nightshade fruit in the gloom,
beckons like the moist lips of elves.
Wondering, I know a clear chalk-stream,
the splashes and laughs
of Roman children floating boats –
before the drummers come
to call the Eagles home.
Hengist stamps ashore,
to farrow his pigs upon mosaics.
The bright water flees below,
leaves its bed dry to centuries
of ponies bearing wool.
The grey squirrel runs up a tree –
yet another invader.