Sunrise In the Wolds

When the sun rises and spreads its sticky yellow syrup across green marzipan fields I rub the bees from the fragrant holyhock bells and sniff the nectar. I pull each cup to drink the breakfast dew and taste summer mornings paste then hear a fly buzzing by. Trees are heavy with laden aprons of sappy boughs, thick with unopened fruit, Unable to set the table or move their loaded limbs. In this warm, breathless, first blush, slurping down the booty of the day, inebriated in a fine stirred brew of Yorkshire hemp, I blink to see my dreaming fairyland alive, and paying tribute lift to toast the ride.