The air has a Mediterranean warmth,

and September has barely begun, yet

the Japanese cherry’s annual

alchemy is already underway –

making the green into soft gold, the gold

into bright copper. For the birch, the acer,

plum and fig summer prevails. Butterflies

are on the ivy, bees on the sedum

 

From where I sit in this healing Eden

the turning leaves appear like links of metal

plaited. In due course, they will untangle,

fall, decay. This is a complacent place.

East of Eden, ignorant armies

are mustering, while children go hungry.

My watchwords are: Be kind! Be  unforgiving!

 

This morning’s sky was a pinkish, orange

overcast – dust particles from sand storms

in the Sahara, blown overnight

by southerly winds, leaving a fine layer

on recycling bins, and on the car.

Tomorrow is my annual CT scan

– free moon-shot technology to check

nothing hidden and untoward progresses.

Such investment in an old man’s future!

This may be the last time, the doctor says.

Proper sentences end with a full stop –

proper poems with ambiguities.

Wind chimes – made from a small bell, and pierced,

hand-carved coloured stones threaded on strands of twine –

stirring in an unexpected shift of air,

ring gently out of sight.