A Thief in the Country

They keep them hidden
Within those rolling hills
Their dirty little things
That not even the hoarding
Claws of Magpies will touch

And this is my bread
My rusting loaf

Carrion to them

In the slit of a side street
In the bowels of some generic village
Where lead and fear
Dance through the water pipes
I let the soles of my boots
Slap gently against muddied cobbles

My eyes open
My mouth dry with breath