Last light on the hilltops and his crop of stones
is ripening nicely. It’s time he trashed
my grandfather’s hedgerows of beech,
pleached them against the rustling rain.
‘I haven’t been down to the village again
since the night of the concert. I keep
myself to myself. I take it you’ve heard
the rumours of big cats hunting sheep.
Ask about killing the already dead
and the beast of prey inside the head.’