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Sonnet

I wouldn’t stop by there, if I were you,
On the sculpted apex and wide chicane
Of lofted paths shepherding autumn plains—
For all you suppose it affords a view,
An outcast girl, a summer back or two,
Sheltered where you stand from the August rain
And met – before she’d found her way again –
An antic buck, frightened by the thunder too!.

It gamboled in, antlers-first and flying;
We saw the clash from the porch-chairs here,
Heard the buck’s neck break, its awkward crying;
She tore silent to the summer plains sheer!.

So come away, we meant you no offence,
Next year, perhaps, we’ll consider a fence!.
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