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Firle 2 5 15

Rain clouds drift across the beacon's head

Greying the damp spring fields, softening skies

As if muslin veils enshroud the Downs

Keeping them snug within a gentle void.

The dipoles and the ridge path where we walk

Have disappeared and even closer to

Swallows swoop then vanish from my sight,

Sheep rest, blurred against the misted hedge.

The train is quiet, a distant mobile call

Alone breaking the rhythm of the wheels.

Empty stations pass unnoticed till

The downs are gone and placid to the south

The sea yawns as the evening closes in.

Brian Hick 2.5.15

©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.26