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.