the cradle of the day

hourglass halved at autumn equinox,

we walked the roof of gower, wild

with gentle ponies and cows at cud,

and not a sound or fellow walker

did rustle the whitening grass, or nudge

the gorse kissed flowers shottled mauve

with heather; bedazzling a fungal crown

that has mistaken this indian summer’s day 

for autumn afoot, in mist, free-roaming 

down the haze, that on this wine-clear day is

becalmed above the enchanting oxwich bay.

and falling footsure down through crawley woods,

creeping and red-berried, mossed-dank,

tree-tunnelled on the sandy path 

to the open delta dunes, and tor bay, 

set fair at half way down the day,

and lunch seated on the low water rocks,

where a last lost butterfly jigs 

to a summer out of tune.

the bluest blue, the whitest white

smoke-signal pods that ride

the sun on this perfect, perfect day.

the end of a long walk back to when

the days were, as a child’s days were,

sweet beyond recompense; and here

i will rest my soul, until such time,

as a day such as this, comes around 

to visit just one more time this life, and

oh lordy, lordy, me, is that the time!?

coffee and cake awaits at pennard stores, 

before the buggly bus chuggly chugs

to doze us back home again

lost in the cradle of the day.