when it’s been really hot
like today, close to the mid-point of June
eventually the blue begins to thin
as if mixed with a few drops of white spirit
.
the air moves a little faster
adding cool to shade
under the solitary oak
crowning the rise
.
arrhymic sounds of a distant road backwash
strangely vigorous mid-afternoon songs of blackbirds
who call as if expecting rain
but it won’t, not yet
.
there is no accumulation of clouds
over the Blackdown Hills
just the wind seasoned by a dash of brine
chilled through months of swirling winter tides
.
provoked, other birds respond, goldfinches
keening for respite from potential drought
trying to sweet -talk moisture from the sky
to fill the hard-set hoof prints and tyre-track hollows
.
to soften the soil and freshen pasture
to fill the brook now wearing a skin
that barely covers its old bones
its smoothed stones lie dry, matted green
.
heading west into the breeze
every feather extended to the full
a buzzard floats along the hedge
then shifts its path toward the wood
.
I sit against the towering trunk
spine aligned to its hard rutted bark
listen to the plaintive songs
wonder at how fast my sixty years have gone
