They let me sit at a picnic table
in the garden of Oxford Union
lie on a bench, look up
through leaves into blue sky
and then ascend
on a cushion
lazy, like a sunning cat
and everything was all right

I dropped down to land
and looked for company
or a home, to put my feet up

Is it too early to give thought
even before harvest is gathered
to winter
forget the distant hills
bring it all back to myself

~ ~ ~


In winter
inside me
I incubate the egg
that will hatch into summer

but when spring has gone
and the new season happens
there's a mad child stamping on flowers
not the flow of seasons
August come September
that, is the pain

I feel empty
waiting for autumn
and the air of new growth

~ ~ ~