High haze: a ring around the sun:
bright overcast: hand’s shadow
fades on the page: clouds
tow blue sky on warm wind.
The busy world’s machinery
is a wasp’s buzz in the forest.
Pensioners, short-term contractors,
content, we can afford to let trees fall
unharvested, to feed the wilderness.
Up in the hardwood canopy
a wood thrush out-lieders rivals to persuade
an open-hearted listener it’s all good.
Breezes brush the bay, sky-coloured
ripples advance, waver, reverse, we
follow somehow, shimmer, transient,
far sun-flicker stammering.