An almost mystic silence

descends on the lambent, lamb bent,

lamb bobbing fields

 

as the West sinking sun

leaves an early evening light,

the day has almost passed:

the bright pale green of the new larch buds

the rusty pink brown of the budding almond

the gold of a burgeoning dog wood

are set against

the solid darkness of a solitary fir tree

the soft clouds in a very pale sky

the unlit grass which is just

green

and a Front Row discussion of light

in Rembrandt's paintings

 

A magpie chatters once

and is still

 

To the East the near marsh is in my shadow

but the final sun rays shine on far fields and hills

and makes their beech trees - not yet in bud -

glow in contrast to the shade

 

Later, distant trees are starkly sharp

marching across the horizon

there is a point when - as the light finally goes -

every branching twig stands crisply black

against the last sky glow

 

And the lambs sleep