Field Drab

The long, hook-nosed road
that carries no-one willingly
leads to a fuss of yellow broom,
gentle flames around the drab, paddock fences
that slant out from the endless jawbone of a hill
to remind me that everything in the sunny field
is contained there, in unseen rooms
where Cyclops lies on his side as the sky cools,
invisible but for an eye, sleepless and red,
resting between brushing shoulders of heather
that bow and wave before the moon as the wind blows.

Wind that has been blowing
since before there were words or fences
blows now into dreams in the black-stencilled houses,
in between hay-bales and strong, fleshy trees;
blows life back into the rusted tractors
and comfortable silences