The Fox and the Blue Bells

THE FOX and THE BLUE BELLS Wild goose farm sits between masts and mist, with fading half moons a distant whistling of thrushes, ripples the may blossom; at the pond side. Amongst Lapped reeds, snapped terrier barks, break the still air, in the pale left over remains of night, a grey lag trumpeted morning peeps! Under the dissolving stars, as cold as the hanging sandstone cliffs focused, oval hazel eyes, wide on a vantage point, stare! Shapes of things to come move slyly burdened by need, opaque clouds against the half moon hides a glimmer light, maybe hope. A drifting, broken violet scent is mixed in the violent light; Sharp bare unbroken ivory, justifies the broken silence, the Bluebells sway gently, and the goose stillness, sleeps in the broken farm.