A Dale’s village
Under the tor, on the losing bank
as the river horse-shoed round,
a gentle flow of iced tea which now and then
rolled over larger rocks, becoming
quicksilver for a moment in its haste
to return to slow.
And the wind nudged the stretched
leaves into lift, before bending
the tops of the taller grasses across
the pasture, briefly wiping the warmth
from my cheek as it passed and stealing
away on its back the sounds of dogs
and children at play.
As the sun’s brilliance and heat made
the village walls glow like desert sand,
as if the stone was newly hewn.
And under the canopy of the garden’s trees
I sipped a pint of ale, drawn from a
perfect cellar, and watched in silence
the odd shapes of filtered light
dance across the table, for I feared
one word spoken may steal all away.