Monday, 4 June 2012


From here- tulips. 
On the window-sill, and they crane their stalk necks and their heads loll- fully blown, crepe as they live out a cut death. 
But I love them.
Against the blue of the sky, against the living green of the laurel- that shines-
that bees and wasps move in and out of.
I can see the structure of the leaves & all the hard and soft of it.
Somehow the light does not get in here, the room is dulled- I will go out. 
Under the sun- the fork of the frown between my brows, follow a slow cloud- follow the ants, greeting, busy, fast- listen to the rush of traffic- swoosh- listen to the rumble of aeroplane. 
Feel hungry- feel thirsty. 
The dear, sweet, small necessary of the day. 
So swift and right beneath a hot bright hour. 
You can marvel at a beetle folding it's wings away.
And, you can be here- then- gone.

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