grass and tree all green like it should be
all propped up on a hill in Watership Down
where cottages nest among and under
familiar words that build places from paintings
and maps, all full of Boston suburbs and streets,
this untouched English countryside so gently pillaged.
And so it is here like it should be where
a red house looks cold and wise and dark and right
in trees and green, so the still and the violent Sport
of Kings just there. Why wouldn’t we circle the match
lead in hand, why wouldn’t we be walking?
but for his damn barking startling all the
pretty people his barking barking. You’re afraid
as dark birds alight they might
carry up these Watership Down trees may well buzz away
these wheat fields may well blow away would
But let it all blow away. Let the horses run like reindeer
into the gray. Carry away rosy Harry, go on. Let this clean
marquee shutter and burst into watercress that champagne into
its rightful gully let it all go spinning.
He is a good dog. He is a kind animal, stupid.
I do not want your Watership Down
if I must wrestle this animal quiet. If you must strike-
A noise like that should be a fox’s bite back or holly fingers digging.
It is not his wet nose, soft, seeking, slapped on your hard palm —
This bit of peace has settled here. You cannot hold it like a black
rubber grip like a brick.
You do not deserve your home. I will let it all go.