Camomile Lawn

A gem of a morning,
a sunrise to die for;
a perfect day
for sowing
that camomile lawn
I’ve long-since had a yen for.

Spider-webs,
bedecked with dew,
sparkle on the hedge. Tap
my dad’s barometer,
hanging in the hall.
Rock steady,
much as he was.

The freshly dug soil,
warmed by the sun,
slips through my fingers,
fine as moon dust.
Swifts, rip the air;
black ribbons
on the breeze.

Spade in hand,
drink in that quintessential,
fleeting sound of Spring;
a cuckoo’s call,
drifting on the wind
from the moor beyond the field...

the swallows dive-bomb
the pond to snatch a drink.
The lawn safely sown,
I imagine it grown,
as I gaze from a window.

The air stagnates.
Leaf nor branch stir.
Way in the distance
a drum-roll of thunder
as soft, down the chimney

the wind... half threat
half promise, speaks
of rain in the offing.
The barometer
drops like a stone.