circa six/my dear

He doesn’t even know I’m here,
well, he or she, but I can’t stop watching,
the spring rain whispers messages to the earth
from the sky, seems to be the only cover
this friend I’ve found feels
safe to leave the house under.

Still, the paranoia is evident in
every twitch, the slightest switch
in lighting, lightning, the heaviness of the
sky’s gift. I guess that’s the scar
being preyed on for centuries leaves;
seemingly entirely unaware of the
weapons, the crown gracing his
nervous mind.
Strange to see one now, technically,
but, then again, this’d be
when I’d choose.
Nothing to lose.

I’ve never really had appreciation
for spring, never got into
Horace’s ‘fons bandusiae’ thing…

but it’s difficult not to love
anything through sheets of
purifying beauty.

The adolescent groups of
leaves which, this morning,
looked out of place & awkward
on his majesty, the established oak
framed perfectly in my window,
now, next to my pal, look
like baby creatures, some
clutching on for dear life,
some venturing out towards
the world, the fall,
like my dear,
furtively stepping
out into the stark grey spring light,
a grandfather’s bemused frown,
like a looter,
to feast on the results of this
terrible British weather.

I move. He nervously gulps down his last bite,
licks his lips, trying to look nonchalant,
thought in truth he might bolt at any second…


I leave the window.

I’d rather retire with the image of him there;
pretend as though I’m unaware
of any reason he should be scared away.
Pretend? Or remember that the world
can be this way; as safe and
stunning as it has been
this moment, here, this day.