It's already September 3rd here, and I'm behind with my 30 Poems in 30 Days project. So here's the first one.
From my newly set up writing room
I watch a breeze tickling only the very tops
of peppercorn, eucalypt and acacia.
Now it reaches down to wands
of purple-sleeved rosemary where
bees dance and do their own tickling.
Honeyeaters mimic the bees, flitting
from one blossom-laden branch
to another, burying eager beaks in the nectar.
Straps of cordyline flap, the wind diving
to ground, stirring everything but
the stiff spiky yucca shafts.
Massive clumps of marigolds, tall
seeding rocket with its frail white offerings
and ageing herbs remind me I must work.
Work in the garden, that is, going
where gently moving air does not -
Spring cleaning the gravel paths
clearing the paving of weeds that trip
pulling out the kale I saved from snails
but went to seed, not leafy food.
It's not the work that I love. I watch
this crowd, stirred by peaceful forces,
and feel blessed they let me belong.