Sunday in September
Sunday In September
How pleasant it is to sit under an oak tree in September. How ripe, how still. The shadows are No-one's but my own. Leaves still weave a canopy from the sun. The harvested fields beyond, brown and bare Lie in calm repose, Waiting their turn. Pheasants, wasps, spiders, moths, Each quietly carrying on, Unaware of its own gentle consequence. Long and lazy evening shadows Across the stubble, the dust and the mist, Cast a blue-purple haze over the distant hills; A 5pm church bell rings out from below in the beech-wood valley; an echo of a far-forgotten century, And I know I must get to my feet And start homeward. ~ Annie Copland