The Sentinel

The sun begins its descent

towards the night, and the sky

is an ice-cold blue,

with the hint of a blush

on the horizon.

The forest moves softly

with the susurration

of the breeze across leaves,

and creates a gentle melody

to soften the day.

The scent of pine and leaf-mould

rises, as the dampness increases

at the darkening of the forest.

Dim shapes rise through an evening mist,

which gently enfold the trees.

The light briefly flares

as a clearing is reached,

and the fecund smell of the forest

is briefly interrupted

by the clean, cool breeze of evening.

Slowly, gently, the sound

of home-roosting birds

build in the forest,

speaking of safety,

and warmth.

It builds to a peak,

then slowly dies down

until the last to be heard

is a blackbird calling

– a sentinel of sound.

Written 01/02/2011. Published in Poetry.com, 2013.

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