Northumberland, land of the thundercloud farm.

A tyre, a bumper, a shoe

Even though each object curbs speculation,
when we find a shoe stuck in mud
under a barbed-wire fence it doesn't take long
for theories, like footsteps, to settle. Especially in the presence
of a thunder-cloud farm, and storms escaping
from the very ground we walk on. And those horses
who wear leg-warmers and bristle our outstretched hands;
and that bridge only fastened at one distant end;
and those questions that ask themselves over again;
and those donkeys whose feet look like Persian slippers
that we swear we'll report when we get home
just in time for a nap, for a pizza, for the dark
to settle round the car like sleep.