they come in handfuls,
floating through, to ground.
pink floaters like
boaters sailing on winds….. whispering:
she winds her hands and arms
into snaking eights
snsnsnaking sleaking shifting
as if to drag up the wind and make it sing….
apple blossoms never find their way…..
never, ever, find their way back home………
not when the insistent breath of life
has carried them off and
folded up their wings……….
Grey skies hang lifeless
like static paint on tired canvas.
Distant beech glow golden
yet nearer, Mirabelle waft around
in fresh winds of early November…
…. and what of me?
I sit in bed fooling myself about resting
when in fact, I need wind’s arms to
take and spin me on and forward
in this curious Dance of Life ….
Time to move with nature and breathe.
Today I saw Cowslips in grass verges,
Partridges scurrying as if I were chasing them
and oh so pleasing to my eye ~
Bluebells growing randomally in spinneys
by the redbrick and flint Church set upon the rise….
In the distance, a Windturbine farm stood proudly
turning on the hill, set sound amidst the brightest yellow
of the bold rape fields and growing green of winter wheat…..
I wanted to be invisible and float there forever,
no demands, judgements or fears.
Just joy of being in and of Mother Nature….
Floating and seeing, being and not doing…..
Simply in Spirit flight, scrying the skies.