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?