Suffolk Evening-A Prose Poem
Brown, parched, burnt;
Fire kissed by sun,
Ochre meadows of strewn stubble
Drift away from damp, decaying barns
As the last orange gleam of day
Steals into another warm night.
Crows weave in high taut circles,
Spilling their croaked admonishments
Over empty fields left to sleep in the glow
Of a resplendent transparent moon.
Broad ridged expanses
Lie naked underfoot,
Imbued with the toil of the forgotten.
Ancient flint spires pierce the horizon
Stacked on land veined by silting slits of stony wetness.
All is still ; silent in remembrance.