Eventide

The warm breeze in the sycamores,
Wood pigeons cooing softly,
since time immemorial.
The chug of ferries across the foreland.
Crickets and grasshoppers in the downland grasses.
The waves far below at slack tide.
An early owl.
A late jay.
The silent glide of returning gulls to their shoreline roost.
The grasses stirring.
A distant motorbike across harvest fields.
A late tractor gathering bales.
John's clock chiming the hours.
The sweet melancholy golden light,
school bells' signalling the end of summer's ease.
A milky mist on the Strait,
the high buildings of Calais just there.
Nearly six months since he reached out
for that breath that never came.
And time stood momentarily still
until we dared breath again.
The world turns
and we turn with it.
Knowing too that our summers
will not forever return.