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Travellers We thought we knew about travelling. Days dimmed in mid-afternoon and our walls grew furry so we walked. Signs pointed across fields through barnyard mud where we lost the crooked trails only to find them again pointing toward blue smoke above a serrated cottage roofline. Ducks streamed under bridges of stone, past black-faced sheep and charcoal-sketched glimpses of a distant cathedral spire. Over railway tracks we roamed, stubborn athletes climbing stiles and squeezing between gaps in broad gates. We waited while a herd of cows ambled by, the line of hills blurring to violet in the dwindling light, then a dark shape approached, tinkling like a band of wandering minstrels. Muscular horses pulled three wooden caravans led by a thin man wearing a flat cap, his horses’ chests decorated with bells, veterans’ medals. Lidded flues thrust from the carved and painted caravans against a lowering sky. A greyhound, a whip tethered to the last caravan, placed its paws down with deliberate care as those gipsies, nursing the secrets of centuries, faced the roads ahead and their shadows fell across us. We didn’t stir until we no longer heard the sound of tiny brass bells, and I remember our breath steaming as we stood together there with jewels of mist in our hair, for minutes I wish we could live again.
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About the Poet |
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SMC's work has appeared in Divan, Muse, the perfect diary, Quadrant, Southerly, and Tirra Lirra. Email:
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