Swallows fly
Against soft, damp westerlies
Hawking for insects
Brought up by the rain
Scouring the cattle fields
Twisting round ricks
In the baled-up meadow
The scent of woodsmoke
At the timber-yard
Ravens are high
In a brushed steel sky
Low calls echo
Over the loud moor
Where a thousand geese
Are gathered and waiting.
There's a wren-clock
ticking in the woodbine.
#CoSopoetry