A cold field outside Newmarket:
drizzle, spiteful autumn rain;
wind gusts too strong
to boil an egg
on the gas-ring in the van.
A cold night when I try to sing
‘the raggle-taggle gypsies oh’,
but give up, overcome by irony.
Awake to birds and dripping leaves
and then a sound of rhythmic thunder:
shining steeds, one, two and three,
resplendent beasts of power, wonder…