Out, towards the furthest farthing of the hill
A silver dappled morning,
Lighting Stoodley's steeple
Standing, stark and still
against the silver dimpled sky
Curlew calling, gently falling
Down towards the misty, boggy snipe
And the bleating lambs
are bounding to their teats
And suckling roughly
in the mole-domed pasture
Soft winds ruffle wooly backs
and lend the larks
a skylift to the heavens
Where they sing their twinkling
To the rising sun.
#CoSopoetry
