Six months on, they came
never would it be the same
but still they came
greater and stronger than before.
They did not file like Owen’s cattle
but stampeded past them and their shit
a fertile ground for all of it.
Working like ants, downwards
and onward to their baptism.
A short-lived blessing in these pressing times.
And now the burning season through the heather
the weather holding but brooding and befitting.
In ones and twos and more the procession reaches out
and reaches, a turning point.
Pants and grunts and curses, smiles and laughter
some walk, some stop and some canter
but for all the banter (as is befitting)
one voice is heard, by a tearful ear,
“Alex brought me here.”