Early evening horses tails
sit low in the southern sky
to the vacant eye they form
a diaphanous corps de ballet
dancing silently in perfect time
revolving as if porcelain vases
in a shop window.
As if to compete
a squadron of martins
put on their own display
arching acrobatically
swooping with unbelievable
maneuverability
to sip from the pool.
The catholic call to prayer
an unwelcome clarion
invades the bliss
filling the village lanes
with a monosyllabic drone
dowl dowl dowl
that slows and peters out
as if exhausted by the heat.
There is no other sound
the dancers have, unnoticed,
made an exit stage right
leaving empty garments
dishevelled strewn about
the squadron has also returned
to base in the cool of the barn.
Urged on and tempted by
an evening breeze
herb and shrub scents
tentatively venture out, vying
with the aromas of our supper.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 08/22
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 