Everything's gotta breathe:-
Droplets swaddle thorn-spike bases,
encase, too, the little roseate buds
bursting their brown wraps,
it seems
in stop-motion of my observations
over days.
For nothing is hurrying. Even the rain
drizzle-drips easily down, gravity furred
and feathered by the air it takes
that slides these gulls slowly
in their arcs above me.
Cat behind the trellis, turn back.
Back, back!
Dog will bark a fit if you proceed with it,
or Blackbird rend quiet with terrible scolding.
Rain-spots, patter my hat gently;
and, Listless-breeze,
don't seize my dampened fingers,
so compromised, as they scribble of you.
....................................
Its the little nothings that bring us peace:
the gutter water gurgling down a drain
that sings its chaos-music shimmering
as any stream sloping off down hillsides;
the way that stray twigs chaos-sway,
nodding this way, that way, but somehow,
in summation, say... nothing at all at all,
scrape silent fiddle music on the grey
to lullaby the days that struggled to depart.
Sure everything must subside into sleep;
and better drift off to the fridge's song
than entertain a chain's poor rattling
ruminations - so let slow ghosts be.
