Rockhollow in July
In the height of early evening you call, from beyond the stairs, beyond the kitchen door,
soldiers of purple and white waging war against my hiding, singing
the long song of Summer, as a gentle breeze drifts predictably in waves from the left.
I contemplate the last few nights, the utter delight of hearing a Tawny and then a mate calling back,
in the day being greeted by yet another artichoke's vibrant tufted hair,
and beaches on beaches I've been escaping to, because I couldn't face here,
in its steady perfection, acknowledging I created this perfection.
Quietness. It's an odd ingredient of life, isn't it?
It rolls over me as a weighted barrel sometimes, others it's like cherry blossom in Spring.
The height of Summer challenges me to just enjoy my labour,
but I am good at sailing not resting in a well made harbour.
Stillness - yet it isn't stillness, a woodpigeon cooes from a cider apple tree,
gulls fly in a darkening overcast sky,
and I hear my own breathing, watch cow parsley, currently damned in my country,
in her seedpod glory gently dancing to and fro, there's a therapy in this
just you and I.