Caged

Raindrops cling for a while, pooling on vertical glass
defying gravity.
Then running, jagged mad patterns
leaving a wake of spidery trails.

I will walk in the fields.
Stalks of dead corn,
ghosts of a harvest
broken corpses of a summer past.

A patchwork square
divided by hawthorn
ploughed into horizontal submission
revolution suppressed by chemical.

Up and down
a sodden, rutted parade ground.
West to east.
East to west.