I rejoice to see that old wood five-bar gate
that still stands guard beneath the ancient beech
to a field sloping gently down the hill.
The gate from an old farm track - now lost to time -
has seen so many seasons, so many harvests pass
and must have known an age of scythes and stooks
of horse drawn harrows, ploughs and wooden carts.
What could it tell of the village...
Wednesday 6th February 2019 12:08 pm
I am transported by
a narrow orange moon
and a million stars
the still cool air
the silence of the yard
I am welcomed by
a single ghostly owl swoop
over the sheep fields
the creak of my gate
the scratch of my key on the lock
the silent click...
Sunday 18th November 2018 12:23 pm
Saturday 25th May 2013 9:45 am