This village is silent and
yet to warm its stones,
our tiny restored chapelle
aches with an ancient torpidity
I feel I must be observant to,
the quietude, deafens, so
I invent an imaginary tock
a slow pendulous clock
that drops coins
into a fountain of time.
As the dawn vapours take leave
a distant rooster bellows
and hounds shake night fleas
off in the dust
Sundays are for hunting.
© Graham Sherwood 06/2018
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 