The Field, on a ridge,
High Summer, above the bog,
No shelter for miles.

Beside bright blue skies,
A wall of grey approaches,
on the horizon.

Myself and Hawthorn,
Are going to get wet, drenched,
Nowhere to run to.

Hawthorn is bent, sparse,
product of high Winter winds,
No succour offered.

I sit under it
anyway, a shared soaking.
Waves washing over.

Bright again, trudging,
down the road, farmer passes,
he’s shaking his head.

I don’t blame Hawthorn,
It’s a survivor ~ Next time,
I’ll bring a poncho.