Local Glory

The midday chill of January felt and braced.  
Out into the back garden, in all its shaded grace.
Through the side gate into miraculous winter sun.
Riding my bicycle, it’s time for fun.

The fields shimmer, so does the frost as I catch a glimmer of the dew strewn moss.
The windy road ahead slices through the greens, yellows and browns.
A pheasant takes its chance and darts across the lane, another frowns and turns around again.
A cat pounces on a mouse and dashes away with the poor thing in its mouth.

The lake is still. The willow weeps and kisses its shoreline.
The mud is thick, welcome grip.
As I cross the bridge, my face feels the breezy nip.

The woods creak. Silence. No one.
The blackbirds muster. Hoards of them.
A chicken pecks lazily in the middle of the lane.
I keep going, into the next village and out again.

Cyclists, walkers, a father and son fishing as I navigate the bends.
Distant church bells pass word of a happy marriage. In the opposite direction the woods explode in gunfire, God help the pheasants!
Miniature horses graze and dogs are being trained, people are busy this January weekend.

Crumbling walls line landed possessions.
A cheer goes up from a local pub session.
The river appears on the horizon, large.
A boat sails by illuminated, its sails are brown, a Suffolk barge.  

Friends enter a house.
Appearing before the window, they settle on the couch.
Afternoon tea is being served.
Friends long gone toasted and remembered.

Downhill to the creek.
Birdsong and brilliant sun.
Reflections off the mud.
Boats sit comfortably at low tide.
Conversations with locals and then silence once again.

Onwards home now.
Whilst the starlings swirl a dog lets out a bark and the sheep take flight.
Onwards home past the village church.
Birders gather, all excitement, something rare has been sighted.
The sun is setting, my soul is soaring.
This is the peninsula, how could it ever be boring.