The County

Summer’s golden blade does thrust its effervescent golden musk, and into wheaten fields’ did trust, a volley of ethereal rust, caught by tempered, evening gust Cart and horse they trot out forth, spilling damsels, on the stones, clouds and mayfly drift off north, bees for nectar send out drones, later, honey over scones Weary orchestra of light, dips its day that comes to dusk, all’s not well that ends in night spins the web, the prisoner’s husk, spider drinks the tasty rusk And when the season’s hunting horn, cries the chase to fox in den, master, hound and prey forlorn, skip by waltzing weazels ten; like scented breeze, on watery fen Written for English Quintain contest 15/8/15