The evening was all about poetry. Specifically, two favourite poems from my childhood.
A quick jaunt turned into a gentle evening stroll, into and through the Greenwood. The sun wasn’t fading – nothing that rich could be described as fading – but it was slipping away to be somewhere else. Grey and ghostly shadows were waiting just around the next stanza, and the dazzled laverock would rise from across the glades of fern.
There were calls and rustles as the Greenwood woke again, the night-air cooling, and it became hard to identify the sounds around; whether ring-doves and badgers or the beat of a horse’s feet, and the swish of a skirt in the dew.