SUNDAY MORNING - 7TH JULY

 



Sunday Morning – 7^th 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?