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The Noon Beneath the Willow

The church bell hums — it’s half past noon,
the sky hums soft, a lazy tune.
The fields lie gold, the hay carts still,
the air is warm, the world is still.

By cottage door and shaded tree,
the kettle sighs, the cups agree.
A loaf is sliced, the butter spread,
a prayer of thanks, a life well-fed.

The old dog sleeps where shadows play,
the breeze turns wheat to gentle sway.
And laughter drifts through meadow air —
as simple hearts find beauty there.

No rush, no clock, no grand design —
just bread, and sun, and peace, and time.
For in that hour, beneath the sky,
the world feels whole — and so do I