The Night Time Pastures

Through the dust-bitten glass of my father’s car, I saw the night-time pastures. They were not shrouded in darkness, as if by the great carrack clouds above, but seemed to seep an ethereal blackness that from a few metres’ vantage caressed the smoothly rolled grass. The branches of the barren hedges struck out like malformed hands, extending from either side of the road toward me. The head-lights’ yellowed projection hovered erratically on the approaching road. Although time is momentary, in this instance it was infinite.