Here I stand, on the brink
Of miles of unbroken countryside
Toward the south.
I try to listen as far as I can,
My ear bounding off the calling of birds.
Some call it dangerous here,
I shuffle lower, down to the grass line,
As if ready to leap into
Some grave water. Lost geese.
People are making motions inside.
I have been toying with something
These few minutes now, something
The rousing birds, and now, a drone starting
But I start to reach out.
I am reaching out.
Over the barbed wire, for a grass that is the start
Of miles of small sounds,
Of the unthinking body, laid out, limb by
Across the pightle clay.
And they are shouting now,
And it’s too late, and