hoard

A Friday in May - how
green the grass and the little
Martins blow raspberries and
chatter as they waggle by -
the Swifts arrived today
to join them and the Swallows
dipping and bending over
the garden as they swerve and play

cool clouds come to
cover the sun and the
rising drifting air tells me
a change is due - above
the lilac mountain the
clouds are building into a 
bank of pale blue

a beautiful day of
leisure and grass cutting -
I hear cars on the road
as people head home -
every moment here, every
hour, is my treasure

hoarded over years
of exile in hostile places:
I spend it now, day
upon day, to erase
as the seasons come and go
all trace of poison
and clerking ink -
the gold coins turn green
and I am in the pink

previous poem

next poem