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.
The Night Owl 