In a fighting practice

I have moved into the shade

Although the paper

Is still in dappled sunlight

And the shadow of thumb and pencil

Move across the page

The apple tree spreads across more

Than half the garden

On the day before the 4th of July

The tree is so so very heavily ladened

With the fruit though still yet to ripen

The fruits will fall

Some already have

And in the trees of many years

Or even more years

Many more fruits have fallen

Yet each summer

And this one in particular

Life returns in abundance

Once again growth springs into beings

Love is here and love is all around us

Overhead the dull groan of an aeroplane

Memories; two days ago on the Lincolnshire Wolds

A most peaceful place on earth

Two jet fighters in a fighting practice

Two pilots fly at many hundreds of miles an hour

Where were they going, what were they knowing

Showing off their skills way above the farmer

With his plough, with his rake, with his seed

He moves so so slowly, studiously he takes his time

He waits for the season, his reasons are clear

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Fleeting moments

It is almost too warm for some of the flowers

For instance the primrose

Whose paper thin blossom is even thinner than that

Yellow, pale yet bright

Whose leaves are populated

Tiny specks of black, and moving,

The minutest of invaders alive on the dying leaf

By the evening a new pod, if that is the name

Of the upright shoots

The five extensions to the ever climbing stalk

Anyhow the chair is broken

Overweight after a bacon sandwich

And none too delicate in the sitting

The tubular frame closed in on itself

It's core, only of air, offered so so very

Little resistance, so back to the foundry

Back to the tube extruder, back to the

Drawing board, or the miscalculating

Computer

Tonight, or this evening

The primrose leaves will open

Around sunset; you remember the girls

Chasing around the gardens

Once and again to capture

In a mind of fleeting moments

To capture natures beauty

There in the beauty beside the broken chair

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Four intimate musicians

You are their friend

And you are their proclaimer

You name them man and wife

Their love for each other you reflect

With care, for friends and family

With love for the other onlookers

A proud smile, engaging

Clear words, well chosen, softly spoken

Yet heard in all the far corners

Heard in the depths

Of the chambers

And of the body

Laughter, tears, joy

Forever

So much celebration

A poem

Four intimate musicians

Children, each in shared contentment

A sense of purpose

Sent by chance and there caught

Captured without question

A marriage

A gathering of families

Old and young, young and old

Untold stories soon take hold

Into the afternoon and into the evening

And then further onwards, far into the night

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The undone workings of love

I close my eyes

Is that to become illusory

Furnished by wine

I peruse the changing lights

The samba and the rumba

The floating dance floor

Into the darkened light

Of my imagination

There without furniture

Without walnut or cherry

Or pine or mahogany or timber

Or sawn up packing crates

I am still without walking

Movement now being delusory

Without desire

A pause in the journey

A reflection of the sunrise

Sunsets set in past pastures

Into the lightness of being

Deep streams of clear water

Thoughts of worthwhile tasks

There to be undertaken

Thoughts of the workings

The undone workings of love

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Cockerels: Chiming bells in unison

Traffic roars

In both and all directions

Aeroplanes soar

Or at least that is my perception

I can see my foot

My tummy

I can feel the whole of my body

I see more colours

Than any camera can imagine

I am surrounded by a wider vista

Than any picture, or any canvas

In a meditation space

In a Japanese garden

Among all that is now

Pink poppies, stalactites from the caves of China

And poetry written close on thirty years ago

Scones with maple syrup and strawberry

And tea of wondrous fruit and herb infusions

Cockerels

Chiming bells in unison

A breeze through the trees

Seeds fall, behind me is a shelter

An observatory for the mind

I think of your garden, your smile

You and your sound of music

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