To Orslow first, where Horsa’s people work the land,

who at our approach, stop with hoe and axe in hand

to watch from wooden walls, drawing close with secret 

voice and movement their mud-bellied pigs and children, 

wanting from each straight incision her children’s limbs

and from each curve their soft heads and laughter.

With lizard-tongues and speckled suits

we’ll charm all triple-teated twigs,