It can be an nervous time, when you have been waiting for a change for a long while, and you know it is coming soon, although you don’t know exactly when it will happen. When the change finally arrives, will it be what you expected? And, meeting it, will you be the person you may have wished to be?
Leaves remain furled at harbour,
tide not turned yet for royals
set aloft on a new season’s airs.
So tell me, is it me, or would these fine trees
be bonnier still without
the addition of wee wooden doors?
Is it the same eco-fetish that
makes me pick at kerbside litter,
or am I just another wannabe-curmudgeon?
Certainly trees don’t much care
about dinky doors, or awkward hinges,
or rusty rat-bag minimalist aesthetics.
They neither bare their wrists,
nor wear their watches on them,
their second sweeps are much too slow.
Less than a woodland minute,
sixty seconds back to seven years, or so,
a growing season’s sea of stories,
a wonky-plank squeezed creasote fence,
to dreamscaped white horse
marrams of unmapped sunlit wonder.
So yes, you say – it’s me. But there’s just time,
to careen and clean before spring
sails. For now – now it’s almost