It is obedient to an angry sky;
water, funeral black, scarring the
sloping banks of long grass and bluebells.
rake the debris of plastic bags and paper;
the scattered remains of indifference.
The river’s darkness rises above the
holding banks, burying the ghosts of thinkers;
those who sat pondering its hidden world.
Trapped within stone walls of the lowland,
sheep are drowning; the falling sky closing
its door on the air they breathe.
As the sharp teeth of the storm
devours its prey, the farmer looks down
from a hill;
the voice in his head screaming with pain,
though his lips are silent; his sanity thrust
into the panic of the betraying sky.
There is no blood spilled, no wolf to kill,
or moment to wake from a dream;
the storm’s hostility submits to no man’s grief.
As the river shrinks back into its ancient path,
a flight of crows hover above a field, where,
buried in their muddy grave, sheep lie invisible.
But time repaints the landscape, where thinkers
sit pondering its beauty,
and the farmer tends his sheep on the lowland,
looking up to the gathering clouds,
understanding the secrets of a changing sky.
© Rowland Hughes May 2017