The river has again
found its true course,
the banks and fields will
reap the reward of its wanderings.
A few minutes today, a few more tomorrow; the sun lingers, warming the beeches.
Gold and silk threads soft, shimmering, countless stitches of unnamed artisans.
Chattering Fieldfares flock and clamour, northern voices vexing natives.
Winters low light cast over the Down, cold winds ruffle the warm green shoots.
The year begins with A clean white page; Searching for words In the Chalk.
Skeletal structures sleep – Dreams of ripe flesh And summer’s warmth
A skail wind roars And rents the clouds Through the beeches
The evening’s palette Washes the horizon with The winter sun’s warmth
A flurry of feathered activity In the short light space Between night and night
Douglas RobertsonPromote your Page too