I left the garden
To come to the green
I left the mirrors
To capture the bigger picture
How old is the boy
Who picks up the conkers
How old is the tree
Which obscures the sky
I left the footpath
To walk by the deer park
I left the old wisdom
To seek out new adventures
How early
Is the dew on the grass
How soon
Does the morning mist rise
Can’t quite picture the space
Would a sketch
To scale of course
Could that help
Or maybe you would prefer measurements
To tape your shape
On the ground
Perhaps in the garden
And for what purpose
Do you require the knowledge
Is it to find out if your furniture fits
Or is it to spiritually find yourself
Either way, remember this
The lines are not your limits
The walks are not your boundaries
In any case, all can be rearranged
They were the quiet times
At one with oneself
A paintbrush
Or an oil pastel
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on love
Now to be replicated
Almost
With a pencil
Or a computer keyboard
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on what might have been
Settling for the peaceful
If somewhat mundane
No rowing on the lake
Or stumbling down the dunes
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on how life is
Peaceful
Calm
Serene
Morning sunlight
Onto and through
Autumn’s leaves
Light
Easy
Without weight
Gentle breeze
Blue sky
Occasional clouds
Energising
Thought-provoking
Life fulfilling
To sit
To write
To become the poet
You are not here
Nor ever have been
Though in truth
That other truth
You are never too too far away
Very many rearrangements
In this space
Which will be missed
Whenever you try
To reshape or revamp the future
Why give up
The gifts
Of the garden
Why expel yourself
To the downsized slides of life
