There are roses
There are white butterflies
You tell me of your mother’s wistfulness
For her own mother
The decking is my Saturday morning shelter
As I listen to Test Match Special
Transmitted live from Headingley
As the new kid on the block strikes
This is summer; but what of autumn
Or those fine sharp days of winter
Will I need a fire bowl
To provide additional warmth
I saw such a device
On my friend Peter’s outdoor staging
Where I sat on his Adirondack chair’s
To write my notes of shelters of the future
Turn around the sun umbrella
For this is the best of summer
The pond fountain splashes
A frog has found his shelter
While the squirrel scuttles
Along the top of the fence
And the breeze
Rocks the canopy to and fro
There is ample time for contemplation
Even for imaginings of the meadow
Or the rocks, or the outliers
Of our northern isles
However, there is a reasonable degree
Of canvas instability
For this ever to be
Anything but a temporary shelter
