Hogchester Farm

We drifted down

Through the flower-folded meadow

Amongst a flotilla of brown-sailed butterflies

And a cavalry of tiny grasshoppers, clattering

Against the seed-cases of yellow rattle.                                      

Golden sunlight crowned the oaks in the hedgerows

And kissed the tops of feather-crested grasses.

That night, sleeping outside

Beside flickering firelight and

Ghostly moonlit foxgloves,

We were haunted by fleeting rain-sprites

and disembodied fox yelps

Disturbing the darkness.

I awoke beneath oaken arms:

The campfire still smouldering

With the smell of whisky and

Tender late-night conversation
Hanging heavy in the rain-thickened air.