Dusk at the Folly, Siddington [a Sonnet]

Inspired by an exquisite event at Dusk, in a place of outstanding natural beauty, in the acreage at the back of a modernised - architect designed - 18th century folly in rural England (Siddington, Gloucestershire).

Where feudal Wessex the geometric seventies greets,
and belly of Bathurst post-modern Palm Springs, sings,
cool dry-stone halls of an eighteenth century folly so to speak,
with fronds of Argentine Cypress, who with a Westerly wind rings, swing.

Long vistas of sheep, who languorously grassland graze
where poolside base 5.1 surround sound ricochets,
with the slate green waters’ golden reflective glimmers they haze,
and loungers electric streams of soft silvering sun chase.

But by evening as sweeping dusk dawns, and red sky deepens,
a giant horde of ravens, in great undulating waves,
from the rookery rustling, in grand arpeggio plays.
Plucked, I strum an air guitar, if only three octaves,
but spawn black ripples shirring green pools of light,
as an ocean swarm of midges dances hosts in the night.