Finedon Mill

There’s the lightest frisson,
a gentle breeze, caught up
and nudged by the threat
of an approaching storm
to shake lacework ripples
across the millpond’s placid face.

Once spent the bobbing lilies
slowly come to rest, so dapping flies
may once more tap dance
on the settled spreading pads.

Watched by a bowed but proud straw man
aged branches creak and wheeze,
beech leaves whistling their worried trill
unsure the storm is satisfied.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017