—Finstock, 2011
Early ice slips in beneath fog,
an Arctic path of frostbite, bruised
black across Britain.
A farmer deigns to wear a sweater,
reving his tractor up the road. Almost Christmas
but he works. Oxford markets order
potatoes and sprouts,
the butcher hangs venison, geese
bloody on their hooks,
extra food for Boxing Day.
This farmer has two fields barren, fallowed
in a land otherwise occupied.
He recalls deer fleeing into Finstock from cold,
small strips of forest noisome from old snow.
Wychwood’s reduced to almost nothing:
canola fields, livestock, houses, little else.
Thirty deer marched down High Street,
hooves hammering sleet and cement.
Bucks skittered into school grounds, rooting grass
at the football pitch; does hove to, pruning yews,
stripping twelve willows by the church.
Imagine Finstock next morning
chewed to stub.
This farmer turns toward his third field:
vetch, maybe, or late winter rye,
more greens for Oxfordshire.
Cold or no, everybody needs to eat.