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 

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