The Paddock Beyond

Rain has closed around us
like the grey dream bubble
where the voice of my thoughts
meanders inside myself.

The road makes a soft groove
muted gravel roar in accompaniment.

Sheep huddle their woolly dampness
in blobs of cream fuzz and nibble
as though they had never seen
the pen and ramp behind that loads
stock for the freezing works -

as though they will never lunge
and crash after each other
onto the trucks.

We drive beyond ourselves,
to the very edge of our comfort zones,
like the youngest child
who constantly pushes to reach
older brothers and sisters,
never accepting that miles run
cannot overtake years lived.

How much better to rest with the sheep
and nibble greens while the pukeko
struts his blue mussel body
through a neighbour's paddock.