Poem 3

June 12, 2015

Delay

The fast from Bicester is rattling on
As it usually does, towards Marylebone.
I’m deep in a novel; the fertile green
Of Buckinghamshire flits quite unseen,
But we slow to a crawl, we stop – and now
Our driver’s voice explains: a cow
Is loose by the track, so he’s instructed
To go with care till he’s conducted
Us safely past, and so, slow, slow,
We shuffle along – now gazing, though,
At tangled verges ignored before,
And the fields and fences and bushes and more
And the bullock (not cow) that caused the fuss,
Who stares rather vacantly at us.
For this brief space his presence brings
A consciousness of rural things,
Till we’ve passed him by, as all things pass.
Soon he’ll return to munching grass,
And I’ll be back devouring my book,
And a world’s outside, but I shan’t look.

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