Wren’s Electric Field Strength

  Out of the furze and fuchsias 
      to whisper sweet nothings,
  wren pivots as fast and sharp 
      as thought. With the domes
  sending out high volts-per-metre charges,
      a house comes available. 
  Wren says, I’m resident year round, 
      and will greet you here 
  on St Stephen’s day. I won’t die 
      at your door, I will fly 
  below radar. And I say: I am not one 
      for the old ways, and for
  what it’s worth, I’ll watch out for you—
      nobody will put you 
  in a box, stick you on a beribboned
      holly branch, bury you 
  with a red cent. We never required 
      Gothic in these parts, 
  says the Wren, the intricate vaulting 
      of the hedges suffices, 
  and it always aspires up beyond 
      the mountaintop. A gang 
  of boys passes by, striking hedges 
      with hurleys, wary 
  of the girls walking ten steps behind.