Its leaves, tilted by the breeze
As though the time had come
To wave brightly at the blue sky
The groundsman
He has done the groundsman's job
As though knowing of my nostrils needs
For the tinge of newly-mown grass
The blackbird soars
In a territory of its own making
As if to take me back to the stories
Of Jonathan Livingston Seagull
I am also conscious that flies
And midges share this space
As if they had been invited
By the sounds of the bullfrog
You are on the steps
Saying goodbye to the scouser
As if your empathy with mankind
Could become never-ending
And of course the butterfly
All dressed in cream & damsel
As if the meadows are about to beckon
With the flight, and call, of the partridge
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