we have scythed through your world
and bound it into sheaves.
We have cut your hills with
our roads, denied small prey asylum
in hedgerow and ditch.
With our acidic streams we have
poisoned your womb. We’ve sent
out dogs, taken your flesh for food,
and now, the oaks are bleeding
leaves, the days have heavy eyes
and dawn has frost on her lips.
the world has turned,
there are guns
in the wheatfield