While Children Play on a Tyre Swing…

This spring the green is wild,
profuse and supreme, exotic and extant
- the white cane chair
left on the lawn
seems to float in clovery billows.

Over a mower's roar
and the whispered conspiracy of the wind,
the children's voices
are cheerfully elemental 
like the clatter of rain.

Painted shadows tangle, restless and involuntary;
and dancing grass tips gesture and curtsy;
shuffled leaf-piles quiver timidly -
a choreographed colour spectrum
as perfectly conglomerate as an artist's palette
or the piling silver of a waterfall.

We are the blind but chaotic worms
joining fearlessly, ignorantly in
with the spinning clock of seasons...
the layering of the earth,
the measured perfection of decay.





4 thoughts on “While Children Play on a Tyre Swing…

  1. terrific, all the way through: exquisite; if I had to pick: the last stanza, stunning and that line ‘the piling silver of a waterfall’: never knew how to describe that sight, but you’ve nailed it!

    Liked by 1 person

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