The new season’s cherries in a brown paper bag

A blackbird mother picking through lawn clover unmown

Three of us, sat alone.

The day calls but doesn’t pull,

is filled but not full

It will start again here

Falling rose petals flutter

Butterflies, flapping and folding

Feeding a pipe of precision

A miniscule straw

Feeling in to sponge topped Valerian heads


To drink in draughts

Mere molecules of nectar.

Madonnas mechanically lower

their patient array

of whitening silver grey.

Bullets of purity

Scent of exotic maturity

and memory.

A primeval mechanism rattles and rustles

with sideways maneœuvres

in, to basking position

Pumping heat and life through channels

on invisible film.

The passing sun feeds green leaves,

Ripens grass heads

Purple pollen puffs, swaying

Soon shrivelling

to fade with the days