Evening Poem by Victoria Thomson

Held and hallowed in the still
of evening - something yet unborn
in high thin skies which touch the first
fallow hours beyond the dawn
with promises which might be or
might prove forlorn.

For evening's pasture dwells content
beneath the sympathy of trees
grown now some tiny fraction greater
than they were; and that heart's-ease,
fulfilment, lies here, where above all
the blind eye sees.

The blackbird on the chimney pot
releases cares, like pigeons pent
all day, into the sweet wild air
of timelessness, their rancour spent.
And the silence lends the blackbird an
accompaniment.