Damned to breasts of brooks limbs of the sherbourne crawl struggling over stones, as tombs of tyres send her westward to oil slaughter from the M6 bowel. A shoal of buoyed eyes Watch her turn to foam A stench of her rises Through fragrant crow foot Dancing on her grave. Canute defiance she struggles on Past sandy lane to spon with spon Until the spring when she is gone Leaving us bluebells to walk upon.