Evening Meadow (Poetry)

Sheep drift; their grey-white, bleating clouds complain
fall silent, group and huddle near again,
on close-cropped turf.

And level pasture dims;
the rouge-cheeked sky grows wan as night strolls in
to claim dominion.

A casual, good-natured breeze
that stirred the solid shapes of trees
witholds its breath

from windmill’s frail-armed wood roulette
that creaks one feeble, late-placed bet,
then stands dejected.

As from each hedge, each dormitory bush,
brief mutterings erupt: thin prelude to a twilight hush
spread thick as country cream.