One time she just watches,
another time she whisper-strokes his scared-crow shoulder,
slides fingers under the lapel, lifts the grimy cloth,
fixes his rheumy-red eyes, you wear too many clothes,
the sun is fierce old Daniel. The habitué shifts wearily.
With a hint of a skewed smile he shuffles on until he disappears,
becoming again the essence of the hedgerow, the verge, the hill.