An endless sea of ancient oak trees –
swell upon swell it runs to the horizon,
the rasp of a million cicadas a second tide
in the almost night air. Three stars are out.
In the middle distance a village, its lights
hovering between waking and sleep.
Beyond, a faint glow parts earth and sky.
Inklings of civilisation; Siena, or Florence.
whypoetry 
September 24th, 2018 at 7:57 am
Oh – very nice now, DESCRIPTION plus, indeed! Well done.