For the first time this year, I spent the weekend away in a field with friends. It was the first one since last summer, when I only managed four times away duing the whole year, when I would normally be doing it three or four times a month, and on into the autumn and even winter.
It felt like slipping into my most comfortable and favourite shoes, like sliding my feet into home. We sat, talked, gave each other space and reconnected with ourselves and each other. The last year has taken a bigger toll than many of us realise.
High in tree boughs, washed in a lichen like lime haze,
The Robin is singing for his breakfast, staking his claim,
The late afternoon sunshine kisses fresh cut grass with a hint of promise, just a hint.
It licks at the lowered levels of the river,
Lapping in the shadows of stranded flood debris,
As horses’ hooves keep time on a cobbled bridge.
Tides may be turning.
Around a campfire, a chattering charm summon the sound of summer in Spring.
Embers float on songs above the firepit’s gaze,
Burnished guitars reflecting flickering flames,
As the choir sang softly into the night.
A church gathered in a lush English field,
Tested not downtrodden they refuse to yield,
Committed to living the gift they’ve been given.
By the sounds and the sights, they were lifted,
Under the gaze of a crescent moon and a newly named star,
With one breath they were eased, then asked the minstrel for just one more.