on the journey home the skies darken
a bomb cyclone blows in
what is that?
a visitation
or
damnation
dark clouds sweep across the road ahead
then rain
down-pouring on towns
and hills
and fields
our car toiling
through streaming torrents
others
half-submerged in
sudden floods
blinding spray or
driven up embankments
carving mudtracks
deep into grass
blue lights flash
on the other carriageway
once, twice, thrice in our passing
more
in the distance
the wailing of sirens
lost
in the storm
we turn east and find another route
the sky lightens
and the regular wiper-blades’
swish-swishing
once more
underscores
the drumming
of the rain
on the windshield
we pass miserable fields
of silent sheep
heads bowed
winter coats hanging heavy
they stand or lie
in grass
amongst rushes
or huddled
against clumps of heather
fields are wire-bound, squared-off
there is
for sheep
no shelter at all
I worry, is their skin wet
beneath their wool?
do their ears ache
from the sawing wind?
their feet hock-deep in freezing mulch,
do they burn from the cold?
we pass a field with no grass
but a flock of white sheep
with
nowhere to lie
standing drenched
in brown mud,
sodden fleeces dragging
from
cold underbellies
muddied brown faces
root
for broken
plough-split turnips
beyond the square wired-off fields
copses of trees, bushes
undulating land
and
over-hanging rock formations
sheltered gulleys and patches of woodland
where sheep could gather
if they would
for
shelter
to bleat together
and
in their dreams.
do they dream? do they bleat?
we turn away and listen
to the thrumming rain
and
the sound
of the wipers
and
our tyres
rushing homewards through the storm.
My Eccentric Friend 