Swing

Celandines shut tight against the misty Cotswold rain. We walked up the meadow hill, to pay homage to our inner children at the swing.

Taking turns to swoosh through the air, gazing out at the lazy land, still slumbering under winters spell.

The air was peppered with bright cheeps, chirrups and bright song, bursting from bare branches. Technology revealed more unseen secrets than ears. 

Faces and fur dampened by the lightest kiss of rain unfelt, but the scent. Oh the scent of water on earth, on autumns discarded attire, deep in hedgerow dark. On stone and bark, bright gloss of winding ivy and high on the burnished wind hover wings, eyes seeking a hidden meal.