A horse of discarded shoes
rises from a mere of grass –
just past a riled half dozen

of deer – This our first time
by this muddy path across
pastures without intended

hooves at work – This light
will deteriorate where that
row of stripping oaks waits

for our trod presence – This
is a recent diversion [as we
cheat our daily tramp] as if

any distance will save us all
from falling apart – Sussex –
no longer raw countryside –

is peppered by dog walkers
& lost weekend locals – this
land’ll wear under our step

& by harvest’s labour – This
soil on my boots’ll wash off
[it will rinse away with use]