the ball
lost
in leaves
green
and green
and green
and suddenly
a sharp
thorn
the quick conditioner
to leave a lost ball
lost
the ball
lost
in leaves
green
and green
and green
and suddenly
a sharp
thorn
the quick conditioner
to leave a lost ball
lost
I stop typing.
Not to catch birdsong,
or hear the winds whisper,
but to check if this old cat,
this old girl,
is still breathing
at my feet.
Often
I wish
to
let this ship
of troubled
thought
and doubt
quietly slip
out
the mooring
ropes
and drift
far
far
away
Strong morning
sunlight
spreads like
butter across
carpet
glows in
the glass
fruit bowl
sparkles in
the dimpled
copper pot
It churns,
it batters,
it froths,
it bullies,
but this
blue sea
spat upon
the shore
a marbled
body of
driftwood,
smooth
slim,
fine.
He’s armed
for a picnic.
A basket of
food ammunition,
a bottle of
pinot gris,
and a baguette,
held in hand
charged like
a bayonet.
It rained,
and water
gems
collected
in the leathery
pockets
of a savoy
cabbage
leaf,
each bold
and full
as the head
of green
beneath