Monday, 23 May 2011
Good morning garden. Good morning blackbirds with your clicking cries. Good morning dew; good morning its reflected light. Good morning peacock call, poor lone bird in the garden of the house at the bend in the lane. Good morning stripes on Samuel's tail. Good morning sweet rocket with your evening perfume. Good morning Phill's cough, crackling at his desk. Good morning brickwork. Good morning curtains. Good morning fly on the window. Good morning cherry tree, whose flowers are fallen, whose fruits stand hard and green and tight to stem. Good morning sunlight and shadow on the trunks of ashes. Good morning browning pine cones. Good morning mole hills in my lawn and tunneling moles in the dim beneath. Good morning early summer warmth that allows me to sit here with the window wide open, to listen to the birds and the few cars which pass on the lane; that enables me to breathe the earth-scent and greenery, to breathe, as a plant might breathe, to see the branches of the pine tree wobble and see-saw as a squirrel leaps away; that allows Samuel to sit on the ledge and watch too, before me, like a figure-head, his ears swivelling, his fur twitching at every sound and scurry.