Summer Kings

The mist hovers, cradled within the valley,
wisps starting to break away and run
from the lazily blooming dawn.
We perch on the lower branches
of the great Oak, surveying our Kingdom.
The smell of fresh cut grass,
signaling 'High Summer'.
The sound of stone on scythe, cutting through
the bird and grasshopper symphony.
Somewhere a cow lows, udder empty; can full.
The smell of a rasher frying, wafts briefly;
salivation guaranteed. And with the fog
dissolving, as candyfloss on the tongue,
revealing the multi-green fields of Kent...
the Kings run home for breakfast.