Moving on

I splice through the mound of soil,
sever an ant in two.
Corridors of workers disperse
like deranged notes of music,
their rhythms disrupted, beats broken.
They must move on, form a new colony.
My hands smooth the ground, robe it in grass.
I plant primroses. Join with the earth,
grave-dirt under my nails, drawing closer.

Rust red mud oozes onto the tarmac,
clings to gleaming Japanese cars.
The farmer'll get the blame, harvesting potatoes.
Mrs Watkins called by, rounding up spare beds
for the pickers imported from the Ukraine.
No locals will bow low
to retrieve England's buried treasure.

Kestrels wheel in the sky
above my old home.
Summer guests have fled.
In the darkness of the afternoon
I’m already leaving,
walking along a street,
red earth stuck to my soul.