Past eight o’clock and the sun still warm.
Dappled leaves rock gently, silvered in sunlight.
Fuchsias dance on spindly legs, a ‘pas de dozen,’
a free-for-all on the breeze.

Chalk-white against the trees
the painted dove-cote stretches tall.
New-mown grass awaits the shadowing of the young fox,
not yet brave enough to tackle next-door’s rooster.

Daisies nodding off; the neat and tidy
scratch and snap of shears;
tree-tops twittering with fledglings;
murmurs of a closing day.

Crashing through this lullaby,
joy-riders play their Russian Roulette;
two-wheel cornering and screech of tyres

and little Jimmy, down the road,
with his hammer bashes old cars
—can’t wait to be big enough.

© Marion Sharville

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