I stroke the hair behind my ears
The sun shines, a soft breeze blows
Cheerful dance music from the stereo speakers
Umpteen trees, each with an unknown name
Each with their own intricate rhythm
I take a moment, then a moment longer
Just to watch them, just to feel the breeze
I know this is the place, with pencil and paper
This space is where I want to be blowing
Growing and glowing to please you
And the spider on my notebook
Who is lost, unable to find any cobwebs
A blue sky, with a few light clouds
No heaviness there, or anywhere that I imagine
The tree above has buds, the shape of roses
Green overlapped oval enclosures
A very industrial word
From my industrial though not industrious past
Would it help your picture if I gave you a name
Oak, or beech, or apricot, or fig
Would that give you a richer image to embroider
Or is it infinitely of more value for you
Entirely to use your own imagination
I have no view; either way you will most likely
Take a path preordained by other forces
All I know is that when I stroked my hair
When I wrote these words in the sunlight
I marvelled at life's creation, a gift given my sight
My ears hear the birdsong; the chaffinch or curlew
Even to think of a swooping heron, on open water
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