The rich cloying scent of fresh mown grass
That; and the showers which rejuvenate the smell
Drops of water, mirror the land in microscope
Drips, from leaf edges, in a truculent trickle.
Green, green, and greener, everywhere observed
Until the overloaded iris, can take no more
That colour, which robs silver halide of its measure
In tree, in shrub, on land, by that gentler hand.
Caressed our hills, massaged our dales and valleys
Into this majestic canvass, that no land emulates
Clouds form and shred, to entertain and inspire
These lofty patterns, in Gods eye and all unplanned?
Home made lemonade, cloudy and bittersweet
Dragonflies shoot from late noon ambush into dusk
Summer in Northumberland, high tea and buttered stottie
A dog walked in evening’s shade, forever hunting.
Finally; the cardigans unballed from wardrobe’s depth
A second skin against, the evening’s cooler embrace
Another log, spits and crackles in the cast iron grate
While fire watchers regard, imagined visions, unguarded.
Sipping hot milked tea, and stretching indolent limbs
While in the hearth, a teapot slowly infuses the next cup
The ticking clock, and it’s mechanical clicks invade the silence
Until dropping lids, and breezes whisper... “it’s time for bed.”