A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Chesterton, in ancient Huntingdonshire (only those who know not God claim that Hunts is but a division of Cambridgeshire), is the home of my de Beauville / Beauville / Beville / Bevil ancestors.  

St. Michael’s Church was built ca. 1295 and contains several memorials to the Bevilles and the tomb of William Beville, +1487.  I do not know if there was ever any bit of land designated as “Saint Michael’s Fields”; I wrote that in for the sake of an autumn fair.
Dog fox on back garden July 31 2018

an inveterate promenader this one
much  like his Edwardian counterparts
he stretched himself out and idly lazed
beneath the morning’s warming solar rays

dandily dressed in russet brown
scratching a well concealed itch
up there, alone, he held sway
thrusting forward his proud profile
sticking out a bristly pugnacious chin
handsome is as handsome does they’d say

the morning’s bright light pinpoints
sharp and piercing russet eyes
a pigeon passes by and a sparrow past him flies
he totally ignores these lesser beings
is singularly dismissive in demeanour
and surely set to capture vixen hearts today
he was a real Dandy...large...beautiful to my eyes
a different red now dyes the stilled breast
the wings are folded
the heart stopped
did death come from sharp claws
and sharper teeth
or an unwary approach to
a reflection in the window glass
that which once flew proud and free
is now forever grounded on the concrete
where a mare’s tail brushes it
did I hear a low sigh?
they say God knows of every sparrow that falls
but this is a robin lying dead
its breast they say was dyed
by the drops of Christ’s blood
where the crown of thorns
pierced his fragile brow
such is the fragility of the robin’s beauty
stilled forever now
pitiful; beauty stopped forever
far lights blink red or yellow
in the gathering darkness
glowing eyes of rampant reptiles
hard carapaces concealing
soft bodied occupants
moving along the distant highway
or on mad deliveries
for the must have generation
disturbers of
the wraparound night
they can be seen - anywhere.....
The morning was stormy
and the grass was newly green again
and everything was coldly drenched by softly falling rain
new weeds from  the lawn were freshly sprung
and leaves blown from the trees
across the grass were flung
onto the concrete path close to the clothesline
that across to concrete post from wall was hung
Then it was that I saw a Jewellers hands
had worked all through the cold dark night
and in dew had created along the line’s length
a string of diamonds sparkling white
a necklace glowing in the morning’s rays
and for that Jeweller’s skill my heart
was suddenly full of praise
they were so finely cut and were
bevelled with such skill
that the very birds an anthem
for their Creator seemed to trill
the rays of the sun came strongly now
and the necklace soon was gone
now all that remained
was a wet, cold line
where the dew had softly shone
storm;dew;necklace;beauty in the smallest things
That day I just happened
to look from the open door
as he peered at me from
around the corner of the house
larger than, more ominous than
the more frequently seen harvest mouse
I shut the door in fright
and to the kitchen quickly went
looked to the window and at once
all sense of security swiftly was spent
he had jumped up onto the window ledge
as I watched across its length he quickly fled
my pulse quickened my blood was no longer red
but stopped inside my veins
as paw encountered brick and scrabbled to attain
a paw-hold to climb the wall
to reach an open window on the upper floor
I fled, too, and stairs climbed,
blood now rushing to a roar
of indignation mixed with terror
that filled my mind
scared to enter my upper rooms
for fear of what I would find
but nothing was there
no dirty paw marks
married the upstairs floor
and in crossing to the window
by now, much relieved
I saw
Ratty fleeing across the garden
among the wind blown leaves
this is true but was one rather scary visit!
It's breaks one's heart, she's so beautiful. Flawlessly mended together. But now it has happened, the media brought the voices in her head. She felt the need to shape her self to world's standards, and so it faded away. Her beauty is no more as she struggles to keep up with the ever changing world. If only she understood how beautiful she is, just the curvy way she is.
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