Distant Sounds

The sun has set, the trees

stand black against the inky sky,

and carried on the witching breeze

is the sound of distant farmyards

howling at the moon.

Honest men are all abed,

the poachers ply their artful craft,

mice and voles shake in awful dread

at the sound of distant woodlands

hooting at the stars.

Sabbath morn, our Saviour’s day,

in Sunday best with hymnal clasped

the faithful tread their age old way

to the sound of distant steeples

pealing to their God.