In the beginning, a frenzied excitement; a plethora
of places to visit, a multitude of landscapes to explore.
Silvered graveyards reaching down to the sea;
an open road – a car, its headlamps devouring
the darkness. A phosphorescent glow from a distant town
that grew dimmer the closer I drove.
Southern climes – an ocean of strawberry trees;
silhouettes against an endless blue,
with a million empty branches and an oriole
sings in mid-air, spoilt for choice.
A flowerpot on tile-hung veranda suddenly explodes
and there sprouts a geranium-red cathedral
backlit by a blood-orange sun.
Now I am content; paint-brush on its rest,
merely looking out from my window; let the world
do its turning. I savour stillness;
no need for motion when dogged patience is all
that is required to transform light to shadow;
everything condensed, crystallised...
On the horizon, a heron traverses a morning-moon
that sails through a blush-pink tide, and my cat
sleeps in the cabbage patch – tail curled
around a sprig of thyme.