Hunger plies the buzzard
over the hill fort, the back fields
bare from the first harvest.
Her match-head strikes on the blue strip, 
cloud smokes, arranged where the light is weaker.
Wings out, like the bit of an axe
she hefts the airstream.
Sun flares on her brown belly.

Crows peck the husks, 
blow in the red like litter or bin-liners.
The voles twinge with pesticide,
black kidneys lying
under the flowers and gorse candles.
She snaps at the air beside her, biting 
the thought of insects, 
even carrion.
Each morning, a pain
she can never manage sets her going.