After the long drought
the barely damp plough has a foot feel
of poorly made meringue,
a red kite circles at great height
its looping plaintive squeal mimics
the lusty wolf whistle of a butcher’s boy,
wheeling down majestically
with the elegance of a pantomime angel
carrion is daintily plucked, lifted skyward,
blackberries hang forgotten,
unwanted farm gate windfalls too
a cordial invitation ignored,
weak late-afternoon sun
plays hide and seek in smoky clouds
somewhere manure is smouldering,
seasons are negotiating dates
both listless for the change
newly barren plough lies pregnant
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 
Much to admire here Graham. We have a buzzard that has been calling from a nearby tree daily, possibly a youngster from this year’s brood still reluctant to fully set out on its own. In some ways it feels as if it is calling time on the summer knowing full well that the seasons are changing and life is moving on in ways it has yet to learn. Your poetry always inspires.
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