Day's End Evening along the valley has more blue haze
than dusk in it. The last bus goes bouncing and swaying down the road, lit up like an exhibition, it seems, for night is a long time in coming. The little owl calls and, in the marshy ground where the round rushes grow, a black bullock stands staring ahead with his tail gently swishing. A heron comes from the riverside and in the hills sheep are bleating. Everywhere farms and cottages are settling to sleep without having used their oil lamps. The air is colder, and a light wind runs over the hay and the rising corn. Out of the shelter of a fir-wood comes a man who seems to be clambering his. way home on an ancient bicycle. His tail-light blinks out and in, but he knows the quiet road and the silent street of the village and goes on, only dismounting to get over a hill. When he turns off the road he struggles on up a hedge-crqwded track, probably the last person to travel that way
Previous page
