Rough orange-red bricks stand strong,
Contrasted by grey slate tiles,
Dark fallen pieces of storm.
To the left sits a chimney,
Short and weathered, with rounded pots,
Terracotta, framed by a milkwashed sky,
And stroked by slow-traversing clouds.
Shimmering iridescent, with dazzling white patches,
A magpie alights on the ridge of the roof.
Then, in the blink of an unwary eye,
It's gone, and only a beautiful memory.
The streaks of soft, glowing orange deepen,
Rising over the unfocused horizon,
Bringing with it a fresh scented breeze,
That makes the royal emerald trees seem to dance.
Between the waving, swaying, bowing branches,
A glimpse of a brilliant field of yellow,
That shines as though the sun itself,
Is seated happily among the rippling grass.