Valley Blue
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
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