The Calm Before

Autumnal grey skies
Push forward dark clouds
Clouds from ancient times
These visitors bring passengers

It’s quiet in the copse
Not far from the orange stream
And the creature that sits beside it
Threading bones

Older than before the townsman
Cleans his boots at the door
And is struck by the silence
But perhaps a whisper for help is heard

No birds sing this dusk
The roar of engines has ceased
Their are no children In the streets
Trees sway without sound