The Master

The leash pulls him out through the fence of sleepers
past the neighbours’ gleaming white SUVs
through the dry, dusty air at harvest time.

Down the path blocked by a tree stump,
hoisted here by a crane before the fields
were turned into half finished new builds.

Machines hum in the distance.
They re taking the last grains to the depot.
The poplars enclose the old station like watchmen.

But not for him.
For now he's still got the ghost
of his dog pulling him through the night.