Читать книгу Out of the Ordinary - Kenneth Steven - Страница 10

That day the air was different.

The fields lay under the sky

not breathing; the sun above them

broke like a glass vase, spilled bits of light

over the long dark edge of the moor.

The farms lay in their own lands

as if somehow in a vast cathedral, still

in the presence of their creator.

No tractors rambled out across the Easter acres;

no teenage cars, thudding with rock and roll,

slammed along the back roads.

Only a few lapwings rose and swivelled,

their high song carrying eerily

in a wind, an endless wind.

Through the window I saw them going to church –

black crows, their suits and hats

immaculate. The rain slanted

from a bruise of cloud; the women scuttled

fastening flapping hats to heads

with Bibled hands.

I went outside

into the worshipping of the larks,

the thanksgiving of the spring.