Strange how the palms behind me
slowly in the mild air turning
alive on the warm sand
a cavalry of despair.
Past the dithering gusts of yesterday now
this other life and the gathering green
of the city and a stunning glimpse
sparkling in the eyes like red cider.
Another cloud has brought a different understanding
a broader sympathy
an air of normality
and though I count the days through the garden
on the back of my hands damp with expectancy
there is no voice.
* the text is mine