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.

@matty7w
Good Morning! Thank you for these wonderful poems! I’ve been wondering if you’ve ever collected them together for sale in book or other form?

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@Esther thank you for reading them and for liking them. I have not. Perhaps I should think about that 😊

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