The Golden Hour

With twilight comes the golden hour –
The magic of wondrous light
When sunbeams fade to lose their power
And day gives way to night.

On high, the kestrel gently rides
Above the pine-clad hill;
In fading light he softly glides,
Whilst watching mice hide, still.

Below, a working beaver slides
Into the cooling lake;
The watching duck presides
O’er her brood (but not her drake).

A family of bitterns fret
At shadows fading fast,
Whilst tired badgers stretch within their sett
Safe at home….. at last.

As dusk descends the light turns blue
As day embraces night;
The lamb protects its frightened ewe
Which takes imagined fright.

The pond now wears a bluish hue,
Its surface all at peace;
Silence reigns in the evening dew,
All movement seems to cease.

Fireflies dance in ghostly green
Above the rain-soaked marsh;
They’re hunting bugs in the sheen –
A glow worm’s life is harsh.

The fox stirs at evening time,
Goes hunting by the streams.
Slow the moon begins its climb
To spread some subtle beams.

Hunting worms and slugs
The hedgehog roams alone;
A speeding bat is chasing bugs
In its nocturnal zone.

The barn owl flies to the ancient oak
To watch for hidden prey;
Dark blue night provides a cloak
For its dinner to survey.

Night time has finally come,
The day it has moved on;
Life continues, dark, for some.
But the golden hour’s gone.