Don't speak until now of pretend fairies among tangled weeds...
or artificial girl who swings endlessly on chilly breeze,
do I care that whimsical cats aimlessly strut our path?
No! Except of course when birds are feeding...
those tits in elegance of yellow and blue,
each one darting this way and that;
nut feeder their bulls eye – they've never missed yet.
Don't protest at whiff of neighbouring bonfire,
but for inconvenience when on windy day,
whirl of line rotating – washing dancing like crazy dry.
I saunter to where arthritic branches wither,
glad when pouring rain drives every clue of smoke away,
I'll be amicable as spring decides when to release itself
from winter's slumbering way.