Waking early
breathing full the yellow summer air
to drink the quiet and take it to my bones
just me alone, with all the trees and calling birds
no other sound was ever heard, except the breeze
that rushing soulful little tease
who stirs the streams and shakes the grass
where hungry warming rabbits pass
to scratch and stretch and start their day
with hymns of questing honey bees
that drone above the meadow flowers,
and work away the dawning hours

Falling light on springtime leaves
shadowed fingers stroke the breeze
sunlit table, awning up
proper tea in a china cup
supper cooking down the road
a neighbours grass efficiently mowed
cat on a cushion flicks an ear
rock doves calling somewhere near
new clad branches swing and sway
peace at the end of a busy day

Irish aer
brings the sweetest rain
from the bluest sky
which fills her streams
of brackish runs and rills
and paints the green
on lush and fond remembered hills

Spring you called, how kind
I see you’ve settled your wandering mind
you brought a leaf for every tree
and flowers for every buzzing bee
sit a while we’ll have some tea
I made a cake so I hope you’ll stay
if not, can you visit another day

My old cat
asleep in the sun
he knows his summer
is almost done

Bring me no roses,
or sad white lilies
chant me no dirge,
or quiet tunes of deep respect
this is not remembrance
for it was never how I lived
or ever wanted to be
instead, bury me in colour
asters for my winding sheet
yes, daisies for my shroud
a stars and wonders funeral
and sing me out, real loud

Poetry is not spaghetti
you cannot herd, strings of complicated words
and hurl them at the page, one by one
to see if they stick, when the poem is done