You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off