That day,
slate skies still gloomed
the slanting fields,
but timid pink smiled faintly
between the clouds.
.
Grave sheep,
catched to the hill’s green cant,
stirred in the mellowing air,
and misty pastures corsetted
by cattle-keeping walls,
appeared to meditate
upon their coming colours.
.
Deep in the valley’s throat
a tipsy tractor undulated,
loudly blue, defiant
against the earth’s brown quiet.
.
Suddenly,
a whirr of pigeons
in arrowed flight,
climbed then dived
into the valley’s side,
melting in the solvency of trees
like the easing of a pain.
.
Rubber-shod
I trod the meadow’s ooze,
feeling the muscling turf
beneath my feet; then,
welcoming the simplifying air,
I took my first firm step
from the winter of your going.
.
.
by Vic Rees
Rambling At The Bridge Head 