Under the last of Summer Sun
we sit on a bench, Springer and I,
opposite the chicken run,
my soul bowled over by the condition of this season's hops.
The ducks bathe in a raised planter,
the little one chats up a garden gnome,
a soft breeze passes from right to left,
down across the sunken city.
Malva seeds rustle in their pockets, post flower, a bee settles on a peach rose
and I cobble together a plan
for the rest of our day, Springer reluctant to let us go.
Butterflies fling about each other above the autumn veg,
a seagull flies over the exposed sight,
little gives gentle chase to ducks who'd chase her,
given a moment's peace.
Quacking breaks up the quiet,
they hide beneath my feet. The male
seems less rowdy than last I saw him, and little is quite in her element -
perhaps we'll stay the day.
Dog doesn't seem to mind.
"Live here?" She tilts, smiles. "It's good idea."