Water had gathered in the deep trenches
Where wheels had passed over for centuries,
Down the narrow treacherous green lane.
Drenched cheap trainers began digging at my feet,
Leaving me looking down more often to concentrate,
I noticed when slowing, and studying my gait,
On the ground, a dead mole, face up with arms outstretched.
There was not a scratch upon it.
Its heart stopped from a fright, a loud noise,
Perhaps a blast from a gun. Bending down,
I reached for the mole, and stroked the fur on its belly,
Before picking it up. It was not larger than my palm;
Touching it I was surprised at its warmth and its softness.
Not long since it had gone.