A conglomerate of sheep sat drinking red wine’
debating (all be it silently) whether the path was a folly?
One recalled the night of April Fools Day, when he saw
angels in his fright that night, in the shadow of a
mountain grey and black and awesome-ly angry and grim, death & eternity flashed by in a dreamy opera of fear.
Another dreamed of an idle idyllic grassy knoll, acorn
husks and trickling waves, a gap in the wall and a
creature so small that it sparkled with smirks in a
magical glee, a dewdrop inspired place to be.
Another the oldest sheep of all, told of a tale long
and tall, of a cafe called Renoirs and stricklandgate
street, stowell Farm Sherbourne and barbecued meat, a
50th birthday and radio two, a cold chicken sandwich,
the Imperial in Crewe. A tale of people and places
that may not seem true, and answers to questions well
overdue, the reason for speech marks and why the sheep
flocked, why the idea of mint sauce should never be
The conglomerate argue and rarely agree, if the path
is a folly we will just wait and see…