A Shire Reverie

A gathering of stones,
of mortar and affection:
warmed by April sun,
a drift of fragrance–
cow’s breath and old hay,
ripe cheese, pale grasses,
the lightest scent of blossom
and the lingerance of snow,
and second breakfast hearth-smoke…

Distant crows wheeling, crying, cawing,
coarsely calling admiration
of the new-turned turf,
of turning season,
of turning, turning, turning
in the sky above the oaks…

The distant touch of talk,
and laughter muted–
It clings, this lacey sound,
to the walls and roofs
and ventures not too far afield…

The passing day, in hours
unaccounted,
hardly missed;
Hand-in-hand
the Sun and warmth decline
yet not too fast…

Dark brown, the depths
of barn and cellar,
grey the shadow side
of house and wall;
Night is blue,
bluer at the dark of moon
than any ocean
or deep mountain lake…

_{c 1980 CL Redding}