In the summer fields your life left you.
She ran out from under the hood of your heart
and tottered across tarmac on clippy-cloppy hoofs
like a teenage girl in heels.

No time to notice the strange evening light,
the sun low down on the green high crops,
only time to brake and watch
her go first one way then the other, undecided

at the sight of your wide, loud car;
alien, yes, off-white and wild; you glimpsed her
on a patch of burned waste ground
a farmer must have scorched for a reason, and passed.