The Avenue

They found a man in the shrub that shields our lane — 

one fat white hand not tucked in the pit — 

and cordoned off a patch. We had nothing to explain it

but The Post. And now the ground’s restrewn with tins

and crisp bags; sleet jiggles the ivy; the blackbirds

bob from floor to bole as each dull dusk settles in.

And coming back at night we get on too,

quickening to the safety lights, through

shadows of  gates that thrust across the grit.