IDLE WILDERNESS
Ancient moorland calls to me.
The wind whistles, as it rustles my hair.
A trickling stream just visible.
A brown cow grazes on patches of grass.
A landscape which; looks as if mange has taken hold.
Appears sparsely coated.
Strangely, it's countryside ruminant colleagues sit beside the wall.
Yet the sky remains cloudless.
They say 'tis a prediction of coming showers or heavier rains.
Not a sign of raindrops.
Perhaps they're hiding from the breeze.
A clump of trees with leaves that rustle a touch.
Invasion from nowhere.
Crashes.
Bangs.
Sparks.
Soaked ground.
Drenched cows.

Glad I remembered my old gabardine mac.
Soaked to the bone.
Tommy came to find me.
Diesel powered pony.
Hopped inside.
Off we both go.
Poor cows, stranded in a soggy field.
I'm soggy still.
I know how they feel.
Poor things.
(c)LIVVI