Petrol, or something like that,
Runs down Rhyd y Defaid
Hill. The name translates ridiculously
As “way of the sheep”, a
Source of slight laughter during
Intoxicated poker nights in, when angsty punk
Songs scream from the stereo.
There are no sheep left,
And more regrettably,
No eternity of long grass fields refreshed
By heavenly late spring downpours either.
There’s only petrol fused with humid acid
Rain running down the road that strikes through a plain
Paralytic neighborhood.
The mixture forms a psychedelic puddle in the gutter;
A petroleum rainbow.
It looks quite beautiful for a moment,
Then my dog pulls at the leash in frustration,
And I move on plainly, dutifully.
Author notes
Old poem.
Adding your comment: