The grassy carpark outskirts sit empty, turned
back to meadows, groundsmen’s petrol strimmers
silent as its open-air stage: perimeter footpaths
are trodden only by furtive dog-walkers, by solitary
curriers dodging tutting and condemnation. Unscrumped
blackberries gather like eager crowds, eyes pressed
up against wire fences: exuberant catering franchises
waiting patiently for queues that will not form. No cars
swish past behind these man-made embankments,
wild rabbits amble across the dual carriageways without
as much as a side-eyed glance. And in the silence,
a song thrush sings for no-one, purely for the joy of
its melody, high among the leaves of an unpruned oak.