John Scully (19th October 1947 / London)

Rooks cawed,
over apples sliced and stored,
while nothing else stirred the air.
The day: Had a certain mystery and magic,
sleeping under a blanket of lazy grey.
Oaks, standing statuesque
shaded us like enormous brollies
from a mugging heat.
A single robin landed nearby and stared,
no one spoke,
there was no need,
and the robin gave a piping tune.