In the garden I sit and I listen as the light fades.
There is a rich tapestry of sound -
the blackbird is an artisan - twisting and weaving
his threads through the sky.
Swallows tinkle and squeak.
A fly buzzes and taps once, twice into the window.
There is an inelegant flapping from a woodpigeon,
and slightly offkey church bells.
A tractor clanks its way down the lane.
There is the distant bleating of lambs, calling to their mothers.
Amid this great conversation, the night draws close, and the day passes through.