that’s what she said. Of course,
I begin to find fault: a shrub partly obscures the view,
there’s a glint of car windows and,
if I listen hard enough, I sense the thrum of traffic.
I’ll admit the colours are strong,
mid-summer: yellows of wheat-fields,
oaky greens, and the hills’ hazed blue.
A single cloud hovers off-centre, elders waft,
sheep bleat, swallows jaunt.