Migrant

Walk, quiet, along empty fields
whose grass has lengthened
to sharp spindles,
or frayed where the countryside ends.
You could lean down here, unravel
England like a sweater.

These are cold days.
The sun’s early ache
is a month’s red pain repeated,
hollow urgent.
You walk without going.
Then a dog barks somewhere
– you are not wanted –
and the night peels itself from your lids.

Where did you come from?
These stars are strangers.
You draw the wrong shapes,
could not find your way home
with their cold light.
Where do you go?
The sun will be down by the time you get back.
You will tuck yourself into bed,
as though sleep could take you somewhere else.

In the thin, unsexy sky, a bird
eats its weight in food each day,
or dies.