The fast from Bicester is rattling on
As it usually does, towards Marylebone.
I'm deep in a novel; the fertile green
Of Buckinghamshire flits quite unseen,
But we slow to a crawl, we stop – and now
Our driver's voice explains: a cow
Is loose by the track. He's been instructed
To go with care till he's conducted
Us safely past, and so, slow, slow,
We shuffle along - now gazing, though,
At tangled verges ignored before,
And the fields and fences and bushes and more
And the bullock (not cow) that caused the fuss.
We stare at him, and he, wide-eyed, at us.
And for a moment his presence brings
A consciousness of rural things,
Till we've passed him by, as all things pass.
Soon he'll go back to munching grass.
And I'll be back in the deeps of my book,
And a world's outside, but I shan't look.
If you have any comments on this poem, Dervla Ramaswamy would be pleased to hear from you.