collects church spires
with her withered arm
she has three to date
such are the mysteries
of the triangle

unlike others
she has no interest
in games of spheres
on natural slopes
this is not her passion

in the trees
next to the warehouse
a camera lies hidden
in the branches
she cleans the lens
every hour
each day must look its best

she lingers
by the bare field trees
with an aged hedger
they each throw dice
at the blades
of a nearby plough
and count the reflected numbers

taking care
she evicts snails
from the footpaths
and carries them
to the summits of hills
so that they may see
the worlds beneath them

she swims
in the multiples of mead
and now
bedded on a harvest barge
regrets her piracy