The Scrivener: Sheep? No Worries
…Over the hill and into the main road. A barbed wire fence runs along the side, punctuated occasionally by little yellow signs to let you know that it is electrified. Ninety-seven sheep seem unconcerned about this, as they turn lazily to watch you stomping by…
Brian Barratt presents a holiday snapshot in words. Who needs a camera when there’s a wordsmith like Brian to record what his eyes are seeing.
If you are in the mood for mental calisthenics – and Open Writing readers are of the mentally agile kind – do please visit Brian’s Web site The Brain Rummager www.alphalink.com.au/~umbidas/
It’s a steep climb, up the little road from the house, and you can’t see over the brow of the hill. The grassy banks with their tangled bushes by the side of the road form a sort of protective wall on either side. A black and white willy wagtail flusters excitedly from the dead branch of an old tree, darting out for flying insects — meals on wings.
There must be a magpie nest nearby, as an angry bird seems to resent your presence, and protects his family by making a warning swoop down towards you and up again into the gum tree. The green rosellas are less concerned, and go about their noisy business in the branches.
Overhead, the sky is clear and blue — so blue that you take off your sunglasses to make sure that it isn’t some painted theatre backdrop.
With no clouds in sight, the warmth of the early morning presses itself on your back, but your face is cool in the brisk breeze as you climb.
Over the hill and into the main road. A barbed wire fence runs along the side, punctuated occasionally by little yellow signs to let you know that it is electrified. Ninety-seven sheep seem unconcerned about this, as they turn lazily to watch you stomping by.
You have to walk on the gravel by the side of the bitumen. The footpath, worn by horse and human feet in the knotted grass and weeds, is muddy and slippery and occasionally disappears beneath an overlay of green and brown stalks and leaves and twigs.
On the left, way down below the slope of the paddocks, you can see the lake again, stretching out to the narrow strip of land that separates it from the ocean. You can just discern a hut, or car, or caravan, that indicates a human presence over there.
Your foot slips on the gravel, and you have to stop yourself from slithering out into the road in the face of an oncoming human motor-car, bent on revenge. After all, it’s on business and you are on holiday, so why should it show any respect for your ambling, preoccupied walk?
The sheep aren’t really worried about you, either. Does it matter?
© Copyright 2007 Brian Barratt
