The Singlet Runner ( 19 June 2017)

We stood under the lynch-gate arch

hot, in June's unseasonal heat,, 

held in space by the ink of the yew trees' shade

the vicar's face white as his alb.

The church was held too,

    drifts of baroque eased from the organ pipes

fragrance off coffin flowers, as summer frocks, the linen jacket

and crumpled trousers creased in the dim.

Swallows caught flies from the farmyard

scribbling their routes over the mown grass.

As late guests found last seats, a runner

vaulted the Cotswold stone stile.

He ran through the family cameo

as the kestrel scatters doves.  We re-grouped

and tensions settled: so it was with humour

we processed into the cool to say goodbye.