Reset in Blyford

Verdant lungful after lungful of sun kissed country air,

fattened on fecundity and the cycle of nature

finally allays this dark current of fear;

that daily toil’s smudge and grime,

that life’s bruises are tattooed

and carried until death.

They can be held at bay a while,

scraped away, just a while.

Drinking in the haze and hills,

sinking into the cacophony of birdsong,

thinking in the millennia of Suffolk history

our eyes hungrily paint it all,

as Constable had done hereabouts

two hundred years of flow ago.

And so we realign with earth.

We sigh. Reset.