It is overcast in the valley and rounded hills, luckily there
is no coal here no slag heaps, disfigure the quit scenery;
this is quieter now than before, people only drive when
they must, in time of austerity and high gasoline prices.
The wind is acerbic and in no mood to be nice, although
it blows from the south, which often gives a lovely aroma
of milkmaids breaths, contented, cream drinking cats and
engaging, giggly love amongst hey stacks.
The shepherd and his flock cross the road, he has a dark
outdoor face, craggy as a volcanic mountain and it carries
a melancholic mien of one, who spends much time alone,
and his sheep look as terracotta figures in fading light.
Wooly -backs are not known for being conversationalists;
except for bleating now and then they eat. I turn also this
is not a day for walks, better lit the fire be contemplative
and gently subdued on this overcast day.