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