Ian McDonough
Flanked by wooden trees
the plastic Friesians stand and stand.
Beyond his model house
a tiny farmer
leans forever on a cross-barred gate.
I hear him utter nothing to his silent dog.
My shadow falls over the farm:
Insanely, I am swept by pity
for the plastic farmer and his plastic dogs and cows.
because my shadow moves across the farm.
Because I watch my shadow move across the farm.
Gobbets of slush rise up
from wheels of vehicles abroad
on saturated minor roads
which always lead to the horizon,
never towards home.
Mud angels blink their dangerous
pooling eyes, weep puddles
just for you. Rabbits stare from holes,
startled just for you. Rainboy,
where are you travelling
through all these dreadful nights?
An easterly sews your eyes with stitches,
sighs through the ditches of your memory.
And we, at our dishes and our tea,
among the warm towels
and our certainty,
must watch you blister in your shoes.
Far past the headlamps, framed
against a ghastly sky,
mountains stand like cudgels.
Listen, Rainboy,
can you hear the wolves?
They are singing just for you,
telling that tale
of how you wander through our history,
stumbling
on broken, holy feet.
from The Vanishing Hitchhiker, Mariscat Press 2006
