Country Park

I would like to get back to nature
but nature has made it very clear
that it doesn't want to know.

When I go out into the country
to commune with raccoons,
I am sorely disappointed
(for they are native to North America
and not, in fact, West Yorkshire).

When I appear at a stile,
looking like a doylum,
a long straw clenched between my teeth,
cows mooooove hurriedly
into the next meadow,
more quickly than
they're meant to go.
All the pretty, fluffy clouds
suddenly evaporate.
Birds look at their watches
and decide to migrate.
The mountains turn their backs,
as cold and hard as Neil Diamond.
The hillsides hunch their shoulders
and stump off to the horizon.

Last night I went to the country park,
laid down in my sleeping briefcase
and looked up at the inky skies.
The stars twinkled prettily at first
but then they started to object
to such close scrutiny.
One by one, they turned themselves off.
When the last star had extinguished itself,
I felt totally alone and insignificant.
The night was the blackest black.
I couldn't see my hands.

Then I realised
that I was wearing my gloves.

B.R. 15/06/2019

Susan and Gregory at the country park in Gregory's Girl (1981)