to a wild rabbit

 (prince of the fields)

words are mine

no words take from his eyes

the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands

nor the silver scented sight of evening glories

manhood mine

a prince of the fields is he

even in the terror of flight

a strange high ecstasy

spirits to delight

age is mine

he will not grow old

nor fear the passing of his world

the lure of yellow gold

the bitterness of friends becoming foes

in time's eye

 

The May month burgeoning through the heartland.

Lovely scents drifting from the hedgerows.

New mown grass.

Birdsong.

Cattle lowing.

Lambs.

It is like that splendid Summer which is supposed to have preceded World War One.

A last lingering moment of innocence.

The nights seem heavy to me.

I step into the fields and there is a hush, not the hush of Christmas but a deathlier hush, like some sort of ominous warning written in the night air.

There is a time when even the prophets fall silent.

When it's too late.