Sunday, 22 September 2013

'Indian Summer' afternoons

There is bryony in the hedgerows

There are acorns on the oaks.

The last butterflies sip in the last flowers.

Dog roses turn to red haws and hips on the bush.

Elder takes on a mantle of black jewels.

The footpath cuts across the furrows in single file.

Leaving the curves to the lie of the land.

Grazing in the knee deep grass, the sheep meander up the hill.

The final flowering of meadow flowers nestle in the hedgerow.

Sun and shadow dapple the green lanes.

Whilst neat farms dwell in the nest of fields and trees.

Purple flashes in the green, catching the eye.

Whilst teazles dwarf the signs inviting you on.

History can be found tacked to the brick wall.

Or standing on the side of the road.
Homeward bound.