Rubble rousing along a street. And then,
It emerged, scared, of the barrow wheel.
The shy rushing of auburn to its den.
Only to meet with snarling steel.
An axle bump makes a pulped lump.
To make sure nature’s run its course,
Over a kerb my sole uses brute force,
“Aye lads, it’s gone” I dump it on a clump
Of urban wasteland; for foragers to wreck.
Its musk stands the hairs on my neck.
Later that day, my stray foot descends,
Just missing a frog: have I made amends?