when last I sat here the sky was azure blue
but now it swirls as if a watercolourist
grew tired of painting sky and cleaned her brush

passing lazy sunlight shafts the greening hills
and now one clearly sees the flocked sheep of lambing
graze in fields around the slowly dressing trees

the grandeur of the khaki stone manor stands proud
no longer matching it's surround
   as the moorland of higher slopes
   mellows into tones of gold and yellow

those dressing trees block the view to the lower town
in mostly green of palish hue - some almost pale to white -
and others of a copper burnish shimmer in the light

if one follows the gaz'd path to the neat cricket ground
passing through the avenue of chimneys and sprouting branch
   three plump cherry trees still hold their pink blossom

while up the valley to the dog-leg turning of the dales
a misty hush hangs like gauze
obscuring all but the blackened line of walls
and the softly dotted trees - clustered into copses

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