Under The Wings

Making a Stanza

I have toes upon my garden table:
my daughter's come to sit with me
and put her feet up,
making herself at home,

at the very end of the summer holiday,
the sun - encore une fois - hardly a zephyr,
and time, kindly lingering, a sugar-stealer
at the rim of the bowl.

"In life, you just have to make a stanza,"
I tell her earnestly as she slurps her
tea from a spoon, waves Stripy away,
and giggles a little, graciously,

sun baking my aching back,
afternoon growling with planes,
yelping with terriers,
scimitars of cars cutting the bordering roads,

unseen, falling into dream.