There is a plumpness in the air,the surety
of God’s acre stretching greenly, a yearly crop,
an unspoken suspicion that it’s all fake news.
CGI conjured and served from breakfast to supper,
the only reality being the barking of contented dogs
and the comforting presence of other like minded souls.
The walk is measured, assuredness of a full belly
and the scented pleasure of newly mown grass
contained and encapsulated in village sights and sounds;
the sweet song of larks, ancient oaks bronzing,
the norman church that has stood for centuries,
but perhaps no longer stands for very much at all.
Soon enough, the walk is over, a last footstep echoes,
stray thoughts rise, only to be cast aside
as the morning expands, searching for,
but never quite reaching the edge of the village;
as those who wear hats whilst walking their dogs
count up their blessings and reckon the odds.
Overhead of course, the birds still fly
to pre-ordained destinations,
formations sensing the winds of change,
the beating of wings no less contented
than the rhythm of the till in the corner shop
as it salts away the fruits of casual largesse;
whilst somewhere, somewhere far, far away
a child sleeps, dreaming of a reality that never comes.