There is a wooden seat,
Some four feet wide,
Aside a buckling bridge
That reaches ridge to ridge.
Sitting there and staring
‘Cross the glaring water way,
These myriad reflections
Meet me on the bay:
Glass and steal projections
Rising from the quay,
High above the ferries and
A whistling fisherman –
The chorus of the sea.
I look down and find a hug
From a little lady bug,
Latching on my thigh
And not letting go ’till I
Could promise that I
Could stay
As many days
As she had spots
Atop my own premonitions
And faulty indecisions.
Honestly so,
I do not know
If this bug
Is ever letting go.
* * *
At the Gardener’s Lodge
Sitting, sipping hopefully,
Another Monday’s latte.
Late afternoon
And three months
Away from June,
I see, through
Parted clouds, the sun
Doting on a swimming loon.
These waters
And their reeds are still,
A windy braille
We read with our fingers
Through our hair,
A diary writ in air.
Then it bit
Above the thumb,
A searching ant
I set upon the table.
This little one,
Ever young,
Swinging on his six legs softly
Like a cradle
Gently rocking.
