This Ragged Day

It would be sensible to start slowly,

to think first, and then write.

But it's grey out there

and one of our sheep is missing

and I have to find her.

In acres of damp woodland,

young bracken beneath the oaks

raindrops on sagging spider's webs,

tall grass in the paddocks,

ravens in the ragged mist,

drifting about the high places.

Wet rock and the smell of dead leaves.

It would be sensible to find a path

among these rambling lumps of prose,

to form foundations from which to grow,

bones on which to hang flesh,

skin, veins, branches, leaves.

But sometimes a mountain can seem too high

when you look at it form the fields by the sea.

Sometimes it's better to put your head down,

watch your feet a while,

clear your mind of mountain thoughts

or bones

or borrowed meat

and plod

and think of nothing structured.

Until a feeling comes,

a feeling that you've come a little way,

and you can raise your head and look about

at how far you've come,

and how far you have to go.

The cows are smaller than they were

because you are

further away

but the mountain

is closer

and you know what you have to do,

to get to where

you want to go.