I sit outside the door

on a slate bench

my back against the cottage wall

in the evening sun

listening to a blackbird sing

the most astonishing sweet notes

In front of me

there is elderflower

honeysuckle

buttercups spangle the uncut grass

and the old larch looms in its corner

beyond the ancient stones of Hafod

which mark my plot

The sun has not long returned

from behind the giant beech

and a fly has landed on a leaf

beside my head

to enjoy the warmth

near a froth of cuckoo spit

The louder buzz of a bumble bee

is descant to a pheasant's sudden call

across the fields

at the edge of the wood

The scent of roses drifts over the garden

and the sun warms my right cheek

while tiny midges drift purposefully in front of me

and much higher a contrail is heading west

 

And still he sings

to the perfect beauty

of this Cambrian summer evening