Rich Uridge

The lovers laid on the drier ground in the middle of the copse. Face to face. Hand in hand. Two thin lines drawn so close together that from any distance they’d have appeared as one brush stroke on the canvas…

There are no trees in Orchard Ride Nor apples ripe at autumn tide Save for those in cellophane From Tesco, Waitrose or some such name. No roots, no trunks nor grass between No insects, bugs or things unseen Just bricks…

The church clock strikes midnight. Each chime counting out the old year and ringing in the new. But it’s the sounds in between the bell that are our celebration. One…The hoot of an owl borne aloft on white wings. Two…The…