Faced back before the field space overrun
of runway's end, rusted spikes of flower'd
dock, the field left empty there.  World's
airport flatlined beyond and down the sky
ride planes on turbined mist.  The stack's
descent, each air-braked glide to tarmac
draws another on and down the day
I slip off into, drive away
along the curve of it.  Before

Haslemere, where a tight hedged bend turns up
to the town, is a roe deer, struck dead against
a van.  The driver, in descent,
appalled before the long, spread body
of this two year buck, its twin-tined head
laid to ground, a trickle of blood at the mouth.

It fell to this elegant pose
athwart the van's front width,
white neck flopped from the withers;

Crash landed in a sudden grace of death.