Blue is the last to go, when the waltzing pinks and whites and golds are cold and grey with shadows, and mist rising, dew dropping, drained of day-life, still as the ocean bottom.
I watch for pike where magpies waddled.
Above a wash of water-blue, blue light, the set sun, lingering by proxy, pricked and pierced by the jagged light of stars, reefs in the deeps where satellites float in their lonely glitter, pretending to be meteorites or asteroids,
World wakes, slow and soft as rain falling through the still grey. Sleep never came; the sound of wind and rain drumming turned the wheel of the night, and in the lulls, nightingales tried, crickets, to fill the gaps in the tune. Dark soft sleep never came, though grey dawn and the gentle drumming came, growing lighter with the light, paler than sleep, with the rising song of blackbirds and dripping eaves. Sleep never came, but the light broke in softness, and through the opened shutters paleness of pink and white waved, green-grey meadow grass glittered, moon and mist-silver, and the long night fled.
The hills are lush with woods and meadows silent but for cricket chirp and songbirds singing and nothing moves but the wind stirring stalks and feathers and me walking the lane through lush woods and meadows stirring the echoes of cattle long gone the cantilena of Italian voices working their land their dream of lush green where now I walk the hills singing gently.
The wind that blew all night has stripped the leaves and ripped the ivy from the wall; its hot breath bringing summer from the south has faltered, anger in its mouth. Wild storms will come, I hear the urgent call of songbirds sheltered by the wall, and nothing battles in the higher air, no wings are crumpled, tossed aside like chaff, the magpie doesn’t leave her swaying nest, a feathered anchor for her fledgling brood. I hear alarm in every leafy sigh and sough of branches, heavy with new leaf, in every flower head with petaled crown that fragile, bows, so soon to come to grief.
Nightingale sings the sun down, the moon up and the stars. He sings through the night time and the daytime without pause, while fox and vixen walk the path through meadow grass, through night wind, beneath soft rain of song notes, round, ripe, silver moongaze, and the scent of early roses in the dew-dropping air.