The Wind Farmer

The Wind Farmer

He strides across the fell,
Chasing his flock through the dales,
Each a flowing, white puff
Like sheep before him,
He gathers together each tiny movement,
Each gust,
Driving them forward,
Driving them to and fro,
But still driving them forward,

Bitter from one direction,
With warmth from another,
Caressing each limb,
Each forehead,
Each hair with love
As it blows
Inexorably forward,

In a confused, cyclonic mass,
Towards the pen,
Trying to trap the motion of the air,
That forward impulse,
Driving like unruly sheep,
Unruly puffs of moist, warm wool,
Of moist, warm air,
Driving forward
Driving,
Driving,
Inexorably driving…

© Martin Porter 1999

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