a poetical response following close observation: pebbles for rivers of stones
How black the rain-soaked branches of the rowan
against the new, bright leaves.
To the east, towering grey clouds
I wait for God's fingers to appear
clutching, and hoping for another ten minutes
before he has to rise.
A from-the-corner-of-my-eye, unfocused glance
startled by a ginger tabby, five feet up the conifer.
While mind throws up a juggle of lunatic explanations
eye looks again
and sees it is dead branch.
NOT slow, large-scape gathered drops from the gutter
but occasional, errant, unwelcome snow.
What I took for granted, until a couple of years ago
was my sense of time: waking in the dark, I could usually guess,
accurate to within ten minutes.
In the last two, three years
There's no place nor sense in having conversations we didn't have courage or vocabulary for
in the early days
Not now we've learnt to adjust.
And know kindness - love - is more important.
Wet overnight snow
rained upon this morning
forms, in places, circles
as if strained through some heavenly colander
Two or maybe three
(might all be done by mirrors)
shaven-headed, black-fleeced men
directing my reversing
None noticing I'd barely noticed them.
Ten past two in the afternoon
unable to tell friend from foe
not that I meet many friends out walking
and even fewer foes
Walking on potentially slippery surfaces -
successfully walking -
is all about confidence.
Thanks, this morning, to seeing how the man in the blue coat was doing it.