from Huntingdonshire Codices   Dry sorrel, teasel, grasses flattened by the flood. The faint beginnings of a gibbous moon. A tiny bird crosses the path (last year’s leaves and mud)   to the river, lower now, but still flowing at a pace. The old sluice is making a noise, insists there’s a race to be run, though it was lost long ago by His Grace.   A well-dressed scarecrow’s stretched-out arms pretend to approach the US Army Air Force strip behind the Folly, the ghost of a duchess watching him land.   All the world and its dog is out…