What more is there than being here,
an ingot of humanity poured out
from the swelter smelter,
where yet the blackbird blesses, musses
with stately silence a little while more;
the tiny wild bees, and the bulky bumbles,
and hover-flies in their unconvincing disguises
daylong rifle the privet;
speckled-wood butterflies spiral their courtship;
sun russets the topside of swelling apples;
birds high in the thermals glide - gulls on their long ledges?
Clouds drift so slowly, layer over layer over layer.
I've made peace, after gardener battles,
with bramble remnants that poke from the hedge
their vulnerable, papery flowers;
I hammer a couple of pins in the side of the rot
which is the dilapidated big-tray feeder
so the roof might not slide with the weight
of a greedy pigeon.
Robin pierces the dusk as he could stitch
memories to the sky.
