Pwned by the termination

This is the night mail crossing the Border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner, the girl next door. Past cotton—grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind—bent grasses. Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from bushes at her blank—faced coaches. Sheep—dogs cannot turn her course; They slumber on with paws across