Behind the green leaves

brushing on the bark;

through rustling tendrils,

distant, summer-dark ,

red tiles

catch a glint of sun

before it sinks to nothingness,

announcing that this day is done.

Underneath these red-tiled roofs

breathing slows,

kettles hum and plethoras

of little house-hold acts

take pride of place

as evening air

brings changes to life’s pace.

We ease our limbs

in comfy chairs;

the telly flicks remorseless scenes

into our cosy world

of distant-run affairs.

There is a pensive chill in evening air

that stirs those heavy curtains

though the window is tight shut.

It flares the flames in the apple-wood fire.

Does it reach us?

So relaxed and warm.

………….perhaps not.