halftwo
Wird Batcher
Grey Wagtails strut the cowpat-slapped and puddle-pocked stretch under the iron ribs of the emptied hay bale holder - a picked-clean corpse on its back in the rain.
On the horizon a solitary shaft of sun ignites the flaming leaves of trees and a short slab of a rainbow blooms like a bruise on the black thigh of the sky.
Cold pewter rain gleams - its driven spikes stinging against the bridge.
Somewhere in secret creases a Treecreeper whispers, the soft sound melding in the shower's hisses.
On the horizon a solitary shaft of sun ignites the flaming leaves of trees and a short slab of a rainbow blooms like a bruise on the black thigh of the sky.
Cold pewter rain gleams - its driven spikes stinging against the bridge.
Somewhere in secret creases a Treecreeper whispers, the soft sound melding in the shower's hisses.