In the park, I am the robin
nesting in Oak
underbranch and softerlanding,
the swallows come again
do you hear them?
in the Garden I venture to the stem
of the honeysuckle-
sap-rises/sap-bloodrush
the rubbed roots push-up,
through darker textures of life
and loam.
Inside here:
are thoughts
walls, bricks and mortar
spindle to the sounds from my voice
alone; I talk to myself
Do you?
to be me is; madness
much amusement
some-time-laughter
sometimes, the real-Me
is there,
right there/here/now
treated with hues of coloursplash
smiles and processes
mind and matter.
I wear softer words; wool of lamb
coated in linseed, thickened
layers of skin and canvas, oils
this body and yearns
as Eve still waits,
here in my small, small yard.
Bronze trophy winner
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