Sat on a barrow above the bones of some other’s ancient ancestors,
Ourselves, resting, on a cushion of dried ochre pine needles dropped over many years.
The late summer sun dissolves over the Sussex downs as it has done since long before we gave them that name.
The brilliant light picks out the passing flecks of silhouetted flying seeds and insects,
Supper for the acrobatic Swallows that slide through and slice the blue and orange and blood red hues.
Cast in flat back lines, majestic pines with trunks pecked, gnawed and chewed, their bark of clawed rivulets eschewed and littering their heath buried feet, offer perching posts for a yaffle with its incongruous call.
Its feathers of lime and yellow glow in the fading rays of the passing day as the cool purples of distant Downs that were once sea drowned, reflect the heather now mirrored in our eyes.
The last hurrahs of the solar fanfare melt into a bank of cloud making for filling in a sandwich between the sea and sky.
The evening says hello, as the day says goodbye.
For now.
Missives & Musings 