sitting on my doorstep, late afternoon,
watching the traffic flying by:
skylarks, melodious, up high;
swallows above the stable, diving around the sky;
buzzards in tandem, cruising above the dark woods;
rooks, darkly purposeful, circling over the pines;
wood-pigeons, fat and fast, flying noisily by;
two pairs of wild geese landing in the paddock;
low-flying blackbird dashing across my field of vision;
bumblebee, bluebottle, ladybird buzzing about the apple tree.
To say nothing of the that on the ground:
magpie striding decisively;
a gang of crows on the path, conspiratorial;
fifteen guinea fowl in haste, holding their skirts, their rasping calls jarring;
yearling pea-hen, tame, hand-reared, pecking my bare toe;
two little partridges scurrying by; a pheasant in his finery;
a pair of collared doves, courting prettily;
five hens, four black and one gold, busy-bodying around;
two cockerels, one young, the other magnificent, strutting self-importantly.
Oh so busy, this isolation.
The two bay mares in the paddock graze on, oblivious.
I am enchanted.
The evening begins to cool and the horses flick their long tails;
the sky dapples, impressionist apricot and silver;
the hens are a-bed and the dusk light works intensely on the palette;
the sinking sun spreads a russet wash over the sorrel-sprinkled grasses;
the horses’ coats burnish as night slips itself in, in its mysterious inky way.
Hypnotised I stay, until the green is grey, and as the watercolour sky washes away
a dusky hare leaps, iconic; it’s time for the crepuscular creatures
of the edges of darkness to awaken to their lives away from human eyes.
The fox will bark in the woods, the moon will rise and trace its silver arc.
Chill overtakes the warmth of the day and with regret I turn away.
Jan Armstrong
Photo by Jamie Street via Unsplash