December Dusk

December dusk: the Mew Stone
stands in a silver sea;
pewter, like the headlands
and leafless spikes of tree.

Not a yacht in sight
and only one bird flies,
heading for the treetops
to roost as daylight dies.

December dusk: it's cold now
and my bare hands protest;
it's time to go indoors, and
like the birds, curl up and rest.

poem © Celia Warren 2011

A strong contrast to the Mew Stone in May.

(The single bird in flight - a rook - doesn't appear on this shot; just in case you're looking for it!)

Still feeling rough, but slept nearly all afternoon. Only meant to close my eyes - then woke some hours later to find it was going dark and a glorious sunny day was going unblipped. Got this one in the nick of time.