Underneath the floating clouds,
drawing funny shapes in the air.
We lay down aimlessly with an afternoon to spare.
The Belfry of Petersham at distant,
chimes sharp at three.
The birdsong, the whizzing bees, orchestrating an afternoon melody.
The grassblades whirling like dervishes,
reveal that the Gods of Heaven have stopped time.
A tummy full of chutney and brie, and
a true partner in crime.