High fine cloud

Tinged pink

By the setting sun

Rain is forecast

Cornwall is already wet

But the Slapton air is clear

With only a gentle breeze coming in from the sea

 

The church bells echo over the village

Tonight the bell ringers are practicing

They have given up their time

In the service of God

As their fathers would have done

And their grandfathers too

Later they will retire to the Queen’s Arms

Where they will discuss the Sabbath bells

 

The happy visitors

Have settled into their holiday homes

They will be gone in a week or two

With their fond Slapton memories

 

The high fields are dreaming now

Night has arrived

But the summer light

Can still be seen

The village is gathering her humours

As she always does

 

A late swallow flies by

And hides in the thatch

Of the cottage on the hill

Even the busy moths

Are resting tonight

There are no lights to disturb them

 

I can hear no movement

Nothing stirs

My bed awaits

Slapton is sleeping once more