A keen and fresh wind: coming hard from the sea,
Whipping at the grass, biting at the smoker’s chest;
Tugging at the window and at the walkers’ clothing
As they lean their ways from the cookhouse, weaving
With the rush of the wind in its surf-surging.

In front of me there is digging equipment –
A little muddy-tracked, shovel dozer,
And one on wheels with a lobster bucket tail.
At rest their bodies blend with the marigolds,
Like lazy alligators on a sea-shore.

Cows walk drunkenly to the milking parlour,
Udders well laden, hips spread and angular,
Flicking tails and ears at the dusk-borne flies:
Some sniping at each other with hoof and horn,
Some in groups, others alone, all heeding time.

Dusk is closing in, the brightness is fading
And with it the glory-colours of daylight.
The sky is soft, becoming delicate shades
Of greys, blues and pastel ochre with umber:
Cloud forms, cushioning the night sky and last light.

Seagulls lazily flap their ways to the coast,
To where their rocky, rookery roosts are found
And starlings, a flock of noisy revellers,
Chattering and winging before settling down.
Then smaller, inland birds, stop, silent, resting.