Still green the grass
Droplets glistening against my boots
Slugs appear on the tips of leaves –
Save yourself! Climb up –

Through the ditch and under the hawthorn
Head north by northwest, the hill is getting steeper.
Mist still falling and fog staying still
White creature runs afar.

And yet it levels off – above all else, still grass
A gorse bush hangs over the island ditch
Half crumbling from years of cattle's itchy heads
Its roots are showing.

Turn; a blanket of woolen cloth. I know
What lies beyond – my eyes aren't needed here.
The creature runs over, circles and stops. I rub her ear
And soon she sets off running again.