I listen when the stars hang low, the night-
cool air is heavy with the smells
of fox and quince and water running bright,
chiming with the woodland’s leafy bells.
I hear the owl call in his fluting voice,
above the ploughed fields furrowed deep and cold,
where dead lie who were given little choice,
whose smooth moon faces never will grow old.
This is beautiful Jane 💜
Thanks, Willow 🙂
💜
Those landscapes contain many ghosts. (K)
Millions.
A beautiful picture and poem
Thank you 🙂
I missed this one. Beautiful and sobering–that last two lines resonate. And yes, many ghosts.
It used to depress me when we lived in the north of France. The ghosts were everywhere.
😔