Tuesday, 9 July 2013



Sunday Morning – 7th July

Not a single breath of wind
disturbs the slumbering grasses,
standing ramrod straight
or drooping with heads bowed,
along the bristling verge;
no movement wafts the drowsy scent
of creamy meadowsweet and honeysuckle
across the shining lane.

In the over-washed blue sky,
a single misplaced wisp of cloud
is fading from embarrassment,
finding itself alone and open
to the disapproving frown
of the domineering sun. 

Scarcely a sound is heard across the fields,
as if the warming day
has formed a deadening blanket
that creates a depth of silence
broken only by a chaffinch
chattering in a nearby oak
and, in rebuke,
a dolorous rook in reverent black
croaks back a single call. 

It seems as if the whole world holds its breath,
waiting patiently for what?
The hour when the distant peal of minster bells
slips over trees and hedges,
or just in rapt anticipation
of the sultry heat of noon?

1 comment:

Crafty Green Poet said...

very atmospheric poem, I like the scene between the chaffinch and the rook!

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