Earth is singing summer again.
Abundant dance beyond description.
Yet, description invites herself to a banquet.
A banquet of fullness.
of colour, vibrant, quiet, in-between.
Shape beyond the rulers edge.
A place to roam, meander, feast.
Quench the winter thirst.
Indigestion, is out of the question.
In hedgerows dancing, the wild elder queen
crowns the hedgerows white.
In satin, yellow gold, the iris
resides in her water home.
Ducks waddle past.
Pink mallow in her smallness of stature.
No high bred is she, wild child of banks and ditches.
Rose, named Somerset, lives quietly un-imposed
in double white-pinked bloom.
This south westerly room,
where black bog grows meadows tall.
Where buttercup live.
Is empty of feeding swan,
nesting now in reed bed of bog lake.
Cattle graze here, fatten as days run long.
All this abundance lives quietly here.
And me walking in blue of sky,
warm air, and not much to think about.
Seems a Renaissance canvas has became alive.
As willow, tall slender, line in lushness
along a stretch of lane.
I cannot describe how soft rains of the evening hour,
moved colours to sing in crescendos.
Has grasses leaves flowers throbbing with luminosity.
Reason has no measure here.
No purpose to relate a question.
No thought to birth answers of knowing
the divine mystery life is.
The day settles into pink skies.
Another wonder.
Another in and out-breath.
A Song of Somerset
June 2007 ©