Deep in the Dales, a church bell rings in time and rhyme with a clanging breakfast chime.
A bobbing Robin dips and chips, ignoring the tooing and froing cows there lowing.
Creaking kettles announce their being, whistles call in response to a Dove’s soft cooing.
Tractors churn and turn, ploughing cloud furrows for silent Swallows to follow.
Gently flap Crow’s wings, shiny and black, disturbing the still air that lays just below there.
And on the ground, coffee is sipped, and cigarette ash tipped, and hearts and minds are repaired.