Like an angry bee it crosses the sky.
Shadows hide as clouds,
like cotton wool balls
cross the sun.
I drift away.
The clap of a pigeons wings brings me round.
A pheasant runs from my presence.
The bridle path is almost lost under the long swaying grasses.
The kissing gate is barely visible,
the 'Purple Fox Gloves',
the 'Dog Rose',
and the ubiquitous 'Nettle' abound.
Crows argue in a tree as the orchard silently prepares its crop.
The gate shuts with a 'clang' behind us.
A glider and a buzzard both hang silently in the sky,
seemingly nothing holding them both there,
suspended in magical spender.
The dog and I walk home.
