Stop, as you turn,
off the side of the road,
into the courtyard, quietly permitted.
The weather changes.
Pass the windows of the shy house,
through the kissing gate,
over the stone hedge.

Green fern fronds catch moisture,
stems drip.
The damp increases,
justifies itself, insists.
Grass cloys, shoes soak.
Thick drizzle, coat weighs,
a wet thrack.

Hooded though, shelter, enough.
Wall rock darkens, lichen swell,
grey, green, gold, and white.
The rab adheres.
Stones precariously balanced,
hard fitted.
Herringbone ribbed,
run the fields.

A lone bull, indolent,
sulks the weather.
Wind switches south,
more rain, swatches.
Heavy now, but good,
the wall runs on regardless.
Ferns bend, grass patterns,
swirl circles.

Over the next sty,
home seen away.
Some kind of belonging now.
Stop atop the rock step,
take the wind in your face.
The rain seeps through,
feel the collar dampen.
Along the stone raised edge,
mud, to the farmyard.
Cows crowd the gate.

Smile now, seeing
smoke from the chimney.
There is some certainty.
Take a second,
you do not need to be dry.
Not just yet.

Taste the salt in the rain,
let the wind buffet you.
Just be here,
this moment will provide comfort,
which it does not yet contain.

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