A walk through summer.



The village waits,
the comfort of strangers,
ale is cool in its barrels
and the hedge sparrows,
not reaping or sewing,
flutter and chirrup.

As the old cyclist,
moves slowly up the Long Mynd,
in top gear.

The Wrekin,
looks for a new good shepherd,
the gaffer,
recovers,
from the customers.

The night before.

A family arrive at Worthy farm,
apples are given to children,
all is expectation and summer,
fortune waits a player.

I photographed a man,
mowing the cricket square near Wall,
Lichfield's bells sang,
falling to their charms.

A kind gentleman, coming back from Norfolk,
with his long love and her friend.

Told me of the two destroyers,
that held a tanker in their kind embrace,
Malta, George Cross.

52 years they had been together,
it was her second marriage,
her prince had fallen, at Arnhem.

They'd been back to Holland,
and now the grave was empty,
I shook their hands gently
and marvelled at the thankfulness, of love

It is only Glastonbury, she said,
weaving her forgiveness.

~