You can hear the engine idling lazily
Through the knotted roadside hawthorn hedge
By the turn-off. The chassis fits snugly
Between fence and verge: its sun-bright wharfage.
A young man, head slung back, open mouthed,
Kips among the dog rose and cow parsley.
He lounges in the driver’s seat, shrouded
By spring from the sun on the barley.
His alloys couched in arum lilies, he sleeps;
A convalescent’s smile etched across his face.
Coddle him, gentle earth, his sleep is deep––
To you he will never repay his debt.
He sleeps in the shade, one hand on the wheel
And on the cracked windscreen his scalp, a red rosette.