Last walk in Whittle

The cackle of the crow through skies
so clear, the evening sun is low,
the distant echo of rival birds, trucks
on roads, delivering goods,
of no good, they seem to know

Half a field of light, a pair of pigeons
alight, in shadows of a hedge,
hawthorn and bramble, with oaks
to add some height, break up
the fading outline, soon to become the night

Last rays on a pile of fresh dark earth,
it twitches ever so, the velvet mole
in tunnels deep, beneath the surface stirs,
with tiny eyes he does not need, in
day or night, he takes the lead

Swallows sit, on lines still lit,
between poles through fields of
scub, then large black birds wing in,
slowly, with no formation, feathers like lead,
such lazy silhouettes, with little deliberation

Rabbits sit, so still, upright,
watching the sunset as if in awe, with
bob tails high they flee, white flags,
surrendering to that golden globe,
creator of all they see

The roar of the road is getting close,
or the night is just becoming still,
no wind at all, the leaves crisp
underfoot, the sun has now gone,
behind me over the hill

A beech paved trail, old oaks no more,
the dimmed field ahead awaits,
an old stile, a smile,
and on to home,
for a brew with jaffa cakes.