Distant trains metallically clickety-clack Sheffield-bound on the Peak District line, or smoothly thrum to Manchester Piccadilly on the TransPennine line.
It’s named Branch Street Allotments for a reason.
Ah! Hear the 05:12 freight train heading north. What’s it carrying? Medical supplies, I wonder. Groceries? Maybe it’s mail rushing to its destinations.
The trains are unseen by Maytime: mass tree cover obscures their snaking.
I imagine their cargo and scant passengers, and I smile.
The church clock is frozen despite the sun. Scaffolding frames its north and east faces. Each face tells its own time, but the bongs are spot on.
From my Eden, it has been twenty to seven for two weeks.
Is that morning or evening?
Are the gargoyles being repaired? The clock was working fine before lockdown.
Whatever, the crows crowd and craw at its summit.
Rest a while, close your eyes.
Listen.
The soothing drone of myriad bees, the chirrups and chatter, whistle and warble of a great variety of birds.
…and absolutely no sound of road or air traffic.
What a wonderful way you have with words
Spellbinding
Thank you, Debs!🧡 All just how described, really!