At the fold of day
a veil shrouds the hills
as rising fog drifts
over tapering fields.
Rain falls softly,
dimpling the river.
It’s sombre waters swagger
beneath a narrow bridge.
Rambling oak trees line
steep grassy banks.
Ferns furl
their long slender fingers
into tight fists.
They recoil
into rooted mouldy stone.
Moss carpets the woodland,
the earthy air, damp
as dusk slinks in.
A murder of crows
sweep the sky
smothering the light.
Squabbling
they swoop to roost
on tall tree tops.
Settling,
a rustling murmur
whispers softly, sweetly.
They sleep
under a saffron moon.
Stilled
by a blackening night.
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