Poem: Bucolic

A poem about the loveliness of the countryside. All that isolation, etc…

Sometimes the darkness hits hard, like dirt.
Like teeth. Like the road. A calmness
evaporates, as the salt of the blood kicks in.
And then a new dizziness; the splitting
headache, that becomes literal, is not your

problem — well, would depend how you look
at it. But from what you can tell, it’s the
walls that will carry the stories. Their
improvised new paint job done in a rush —
byproduct rather than pre-planned.

There is a new rural madness, but the cows
will make the same sounds to fill lonely
fields tomorrow and the rooster will set it all
off once again. Though it’ll take longer for
the animals to get their feed tomorrow.

More darkness hitting hard.
Then fresh teeth marks for the road.
And the magpie better not say what it saw.