Migration 

The journey to the barn
familiar, inevitable
the others I pass and am passed by them, then alone
The Barn I hold in my heart and mind - a vision of cream and thatch in a wild green garden
I am drawn to pressing myself against the barriers to the meadows -  the warm wood of gates and springy touch of barbed wire.
I see a flock of black cows taking off following the largest in front, gradually slowing to all graze again.  The one at the back is white - does it know?
An abandoned black boot at a foot gate. Forensic
I see a family sitting in ‘our’ meadow and I am indignant. I stop dancing and walk
Eventually arriving at The Barn.  It has man-made grey rubble newly laid down for cars leaching away my vision.

By Bee