Half-acre plateaus
descend like steps
towards the sea
that's papered abroad,
peeling upward
and falling now
on the empty
tent spaces.

Resident but dog-chased,
and from distance
like tiny brown sheep

grazing sloping Welsh mountains,

are Rabbits,
shepherded only by the seasons.

Our holiday is their hibernation,
our hibernation

leaves their land to them,

and what should be
sad in winter,

lifeless,

is teaming,

and what seems wrong;
a caravan park in rain,

rings their playtime bell.

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