Sunday, 31 July 2011

Moving out

Last morning

It's not the clouds
That make the shapes,
I think, it's our minds, and

I don't want to leave.
I like living here.
I'll miss this,
Waking to the instant calm of water,
The gentle rustle of trees

(I can't work out what kind),
The one closest to me
A patchwork
In shades of grey,

Bark peeling away and healing
Around old scars.
Three strong arms
Reach far beyond

My third-floor window.
And if I look straight up
The newest leaves
Are waving.