A Constable Sunday Afternoon

Everything instantly switches
to slow-motion,
as a grey heron
beats its wings
in arching, solemn, ancestric-rhythms.
And rises at a gentle slope,
but a few feet
from where we’re walking
and levels the heaviness
of the water beneath its majestic self,
whilst sky-climbing away.
Your guard is down at once,
and an excited giggle
traces your smile in cartwheels.
As your voice at last leaves,
by tumble, the safety zone.
I can feel and sense everything…
the yawning, sleepiness of the oak tree,
the uncurling of the fern,
sun-reaching and exact,
the bramble as it slowly twists
its way towards a blackberry Autumn…
and the gentle, nervous pulse
beneath your slightly moist palm
as we make our way over to the hay.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.