I’m suburban born and bred,
I barely know horse from cow,
but if I climbed into its rafters
could I hide from the here and now?
A writer could find refuge
in this place of certain story,
strong in tattered red,
rustic allegory.
I wouldn’t be much bother
amid the hay and clover;
I’d leave the very minute
this wretchedness is over.
It doesn’t sound very brave, does it, dear reader?
I don’t feel very brave.
More thanks to photographer S.W.Berg.
