(A quiet week in west Sussex).
That evening stroll through badger wood
amid the aimless scurry and tinny cluck of pheasants,
May's green fluff adorning bare branches and
murderous ivy quenched on strangled boughs
hides busy late trilling birds.
We warily cross brambles that arch like green surf
cascading over ramshackle fences
to hike between the wide fingernail trenches
freshly clawed by a greedy tractor
lain perfect on flinty plough
We stumble on the tiny church, surprised,
book damp ancient painted walls, untouched,
silent guardians surround its mossy flanks
under a sombre yew green canopy
youthful names on ancient tombs.
© Graham Sherwood 04/2015
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