Echoing far into the evening light
gruff voiced engines stutter and wail
as the sun sinks over them, cooling pale.
Grass, cut and packed tight;
the last blue-green bales of sweet delight
standing, like dominoes, to dry overnight
shadow the crew-cut, blonded field,
where busy sentences trail, abandoning the yield.
Henges, fingering the low-slung sky,
solidified in gathered darkness
hugging their silhouetted starkness
tempt illusion to comply.
Muffled laughter's heavy sigh
says it's last prolonged goodbye,
as perfume, threshed upon waiting breeze,
slowly drifts through ripened canopies,
bequeaths it's pungency for the coming day
wrapped, like the meadow, into standing-stone hay.
YOU ARE READING
Cuttlebone and Cobwebs
PoetryThe beauty of everything from in the land sea and sky from Cuttlebones to Cobwebs