Today the sky, the garden…a painting.

Sun drifts me to the garden.
Pale gray clouds drift swift as
geriatric snails. We amaze.
This same procession meanders
through some thousand of my life’s days;
though today’s the first day of creation.

A black fat bird spreads his pencil line legs
bloke-like on a twig-sized branch,
pecks at things unseen. Flicks his tail: a
long-haired girl flicking her hair.
It’s surely all performing.
Where’s the bread spread on the grass?
he asks. 

I respond, head inside for bread.
When I return, he returns too:
Been next door.
Tightropes on the fence,
picks in the bark on the
raised garden at
unwarned bugs and things minute.
Bread ignored. 

Imprisoned between the
neighbour’s shed and
the other neighbour’s tree,
the slate blue sea, distant,
but not so distant,
stretched like a satin swatch,
becalmed, midway to the sky,
threatens clouds with
increased denseness.

May 2020