dawn to dusk

Upon a fresh, crisp morn,
just after dawn

the chitter-chatter of birds
starts to emerge;

echoing through the air
that still has the faintest smell of last night’s storm.
Blades of grass start to sweat beneath the sun’s glare

as it rises slowly up through the slacks
and zealously climbs its way over the knapps.

Before too soon,
the hour has struck past noon,

and the rays beat down
onto the grassy green ground.

The sound 

of afternoon hunger emanates from between
the vastly intricate, knitted greenery:
 

a young gull cries,
in search of his mother;
a buzzard glides,
as he hawkishly clamours.

Ere long,
the sun is almost gone,
leaving smears of colours across the azure.

Clouds are tinted a little pinkish,
Shadows steal the show
from the post meridian glow.

The evening gets crisper,
the forest starts to whisper
wisdom from tree to tree. 

Blue turns to black
as the sun slips back
under the horizon and into the sea.