Country Story

by Robert Nisbet

So me and Jonty, we’re driving halfway up
some heaving mountain (this is Wales now,
just coming into some village, Bryn-something)
and Splatt, it’s been raining, it’s greasy,
that’s our front wheel in the ditch and she,
our Amazon, is out in her yard,
shooshing chickens, so comes over, smiling,
asks, in English, if we need a hand,
and fair do’s, she must be sixty, but I bet she was
a cracker once, and she says she’ll fetch her old man,
he’s chopping wood, she says, and down he comes,
white-haired guy, kind as pie, you got to say,
and they look at the car, Hmmm, it’s only nudging in,
he says, sure, we’ll get her out, and hey, guess what,
they suddenly bring out three grandsons,
oldest might be fourteen, brown as bark,
thin as pins, and they’ve got a rope, there’s
a telegraph pole, Heave-ho, Zonk, that’s our car
back on the road. Better have a cup of tea,
says the old man, so we stuff on rashers
and spitting-hot eggs, those three boys gazing on,
and Grandma sends us on to the nearest garage.
Dai’s. And that’s me and Jonty sorted.