We are all passing, some of us speeding:
Last breath of Sussex, that garlic scent-seeping
‘cross my car-flight, off lamp-dipped byway;
roofless in the dark, dash-muddied spray;
the fear of deer-leaps suspends my ill-state,
I’ll drive too fast, to avoid pain’s complaint.
Drop down, under Barcombe, about ten fifteen,
over The Ouse, banked, by garlic’s foul teem.
My late return home, from a house in Hove:
We carved plans in ply, with Wilfred Owen.
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