Up the Bridle Path

On my walk today…
empty crushed cartons line the lane,
the wind brings them here to irritate,
drive residents insane.

Cold chip wrappings,
crumpled plastic bottles, soiled crisp bags,
coloured foil, grubby and flapping.
But further on, up the bridle path,
through the crooked gate away from the road,
here are newts, grass snakes, a toad.

Past the marsh bog a vixen appears,
over the mead, to the hedgerow she jogs.
And in the hedge, once the danger has gone,
a rabbit comes nibbling; lollops along.
Buzzards overhead, a pair, no three,
they look at the pheasant,
the rabbit, and me.

The pheasant croaks, cries, as if to warn
the rabbit, who runs through wet grass.

Escape!

A buzzard dives.