The afternoon heat rises, the brown cases of lunilaria, peeled back to reveal the secret moonlight of the seed septum, scratch light along the stones.
Small bees vibrate in the Russian Sage . Blue tit fledgelings are unexpectedly insistent: hungry, hungry, hungry in the sallow.
And then again, the quiet.
The church clock dolles out the half hour of stillness, one note at a time . The crow with sore throat calls familiar.
A frill of swallow song thrown over head and then gone.
A car. The ravens roll distant above the forest .
The bees…the bees….. bee…. b…
( for James Wright)