The wind is the same

As ever, over the centuries

Blowing in stiff, straight draughts

Keeping the tree-leaves akimbo

And the black-tipped clouds in great, straight streams

The sky looks clean-washed and dipped in indigo

Hung out to dry

The sunshine seems to shimmer more

As if it has a life all its own

The rural spirit

Superimposed with

The aspirations of a fast-globalising world . . .

Young women flash away on Kinetic Hondas

Older women on mopeds slug away

With funny caps on their heads!