August and the Foxglove

August is mature with shining brown hair the colour of a ripe cornfield Greying at the temples and his fringe he has clear eyes of deepest blue, Deep smiling lines of crow’s feet on the sides of his rugged brown face, He looks all around a strong tall a man one who was born to be a leader. His serene presence of wisdom and age make him delightful company, He smiles broadly when crops and orchards are ripe ready for his birds, Feels the soil with callused hands as clouds wisp across a turquoise sky, Walks through forests, woods and copses he breaths in air fit for a king. He watches the cattle on the rich grass a gentle lowing from the beasts, Staring at rich green grasses that have grown boldly on heath and field, Rinsing rough hands in a cool spring flowing through the healthy trees, Leaf mold has an earthy smell a good contrast to the woodland flowers. On the moors and rich dusty commons heather covers a dry hard ground, Scabiuses compete with blue chicory, hawkweeds and rich honeysuckle, Perfume from his August splendour drift far away in warm gentle breezes, Blue campanula is cascading down banks of thickets this the day of days. Nuts hang in tall hedges by ancient woodlands green and sweet to taste, Growing along old woodland lanes old path’s picked for Christmas Day, He salutes the fading dog stars of the thousand year old thick hedgerows, Walks towards a foxglove and kneels down, winks and blows her a kiss