Or chimaera
For the sun brings twenty-seven degrees
And a rather blue
Blue sky
When is the time to prune trees
Asks the novice gardener
Yet
As he asks no one but himself
The conversation gradually passes
Looking through the grasses
Looking through the bushes
Catching the sun’s last reflection
Feeling into
The listless breeze
Water is the echo
Or so it seems
Of the ways and means
Spot the flies which settle
Pulling at your shirtsleeve seams
The big bird flies the skyline
Followed by the vapours
From the fading jet streams
The swallows show off real fine
Show gliding as the way to dream
The dusk is in the stillness
As the evening primrose opens
And the thermals wait awhile
So still then now the stillness
Only the moment makes to move
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