The train mutters
to itself, no-one listens.
Looking out, her eyes are full
of early morning mist.
Every time she passes a cow
she dips her head
in silent acknowledgement.
She belongs with grass.
by Fiona Robyn of a small stone
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Love this one. So unexpectedly true.
Wonderfully evocative, sweet, perfect. Not as simple as it seems, with the chugging, nodding head rhythm like a counterpoint to the more contemplative, rambling rhythm of the lines.
This poem is going to stay with me on every train ride through pastoral country. Thank you, Fiona.
thanks all ;)