La Tuilliere

Below us, early fodder in black plastic coats
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.

© Graham Sherwood 6/2009