The rain-bleached sky
an ethereal blue, combed with wisps of high cirrus cloud.
Sheep in the field
rising and stretching,
shaking like dogs, from
tail to head,
the droplets flying
from their ears like crystals from a dowager's necklace, spilling on
the ground.
Water tinkling from
drain pipes; dripping from ferns; chattering over the pebbles in the
trackside rill; onwards, always onwards and downwards towards the
mill.
A pause at the pond,
all seems silent and
still, where, in summer, dragons hunted the margins on gossamer
wings.
A sudden flash, bright
colours glinting, like gems on the hilt of an ancient sword held
aloft by a naiads hand, as a kingfisher darts, iridescent in the rip
of sunlight.
Stillness returns, but
the water moves on, gathering momentum, gurgling over stones, twigs
and leaves while overhead the mosses on the ancient oak boughs drip
their melancholy syncopation to add to the torrent now throwing
itself downhill, in joyous abandon, crashing over the weir to join
the over-burdened river on its rush to the sea.
In the woods, the air
stills, the oaks seem to exhale a long relaxing breath at the end of
their busy summer, and huddle more closely into the lee of the hill.
A leaf falls.
No comments:
Post a Comment