These are rare evenings.
It’s still, and I’m sat outside the pub
In shorts and shirt sleeves.
The trees are motionless but
Swallows soar and swoop,
Busying themselves,
Though I suspect
Most insects have gone to bed.
I can hear more birds
Talking in the trees.
A murmur emanates from within
And the lights have come on outside
But there is plenty time before the dark dark.
A hairless non stop talker recounts his life
As a musician to a red faced resident,
Listening for the price of a pint.
Cars pass by on the road outside the pub
And occasionally one pulls in.
A Land Rover that leaves its boot open
To cool the dog inside, presumably.
A man leans against his van,
Doesn’t want a drink
But talks on his mobile phone.
The blue sky deepens
A contrast cut
By the occasional cloud, white.
Through the window diners dine
And drinkers cluster round the bar.
The red face drives home!
Geese flypast and land.
Tags: rare evenings