Turned pitch black,
The dust that settles on pitched fork tongues
Merged in the air, heavy with fumes.
The scented beads of sawdust and pine
Colliding in amongst the hay bales and thyme.
Sunlit air in flourishes of golden breaths,
Shrouded in a hazy plume of summer delights;
Bird song, apple blossom and Mayfair dances.
The fireside ashes
Hued and fashioned from fallen oak boughs
Scattered on dry, parched grass by the fireside
Soak up the damp dew on the grass under shade.
Sedgy patches of daylight
Haunt under bellies of shady trees.
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