It is a quiet town
For a bright orange
’67 Transporter
Is everything as it really is
Is this the truth that they really represented
It is a slow-driver Sunday
For a gloss black
2010 Transporter
That the presence should wait for me
On the tarmacadam roads of awareness
Have Laura’s green leaves decorated the BA
And could they do the same
For my next year’s transporter
It is a black coffee rest place
For an Italian jacket and a Japanese pencil
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One footstep too many
One raindrop for the few
One beech nut tree story
The fell and the root reordered
One old school house standing
One age of time to view
One car driven too quickly
The pace of life in residue
One branch softly swaying
One sunspot to include
One patched up blue sky
The hope is to preview
A seat looking out
Away across the meadow
A treat for sincere sore eyes
After a walk, a path to follow
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It wasn’t Rocco
Who complained
About being hit by the wheelbarrow
No, it was someone’s mother
Who asked why
Why would anyone do such a thing
But there and then
With an adult’s intrusion
Rocco’s game was over
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I don’t honestly know
What my life is about
Not at least, as in the words
Of Story of My heart
By Richard Jefferies
I do (hopefully honestly) know
That to among nature
With a breeze to my back
Is about a good a thing
As one might peacefully imagine
Several layers of green leaves
Before and beneath the blue sky
Stock still grove stones
Telling the forever stories
Of families and societies
There is even room here
For thorns and nettles
For rough cut grass
And overgrown hedges
To keep life contained
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I came upon a love-seat
From the year MM
Here in the graveyard
I sat to look at the yew trees
From the year M
Beside me the shadow
Whose tree bears the pellets
For my peashooter
Back in the day
When boys would be boys
Long before I had set out
In search of silence
Or at least the sort found
By tall, thin grasses
Swaying in the summer breeze
Behind me the canal
And the footpath
Leading to the woods
Where more adventurous sorts
Have built a shelter
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