flicking at flies, that unwelcome come
in the languid sun by the brook.
On such an a afternoon with the hill half climbed
I wonder if it is proper to unbutton.
Will I seem one of the shaven crowd?
Who plug their offspring with sausage rolls.
This cumulative preponderance disturbed
by cloud shading out the sunlight.
Dragon flies and a single cuckoo
keep me compan, as chiclren clamber
to the challenge of boulders.
The rocks ellow with age, scarred
b ardent lovers and the cutting marks
of masons. This place more manmade
seems natural now, somehow.
Like wished for immortality in which
is always young, always finding
the path that leads home.
The cuckoo pauses, it's drone empty,
in contrast to the waterfall over which it watches.
And in that unfilled void, a dragonfly
arrows across my eyeline
to fill the world. Yellow the stones, yellow
as the rocks on which the children bathe, before
moving on to dance, or find new position
to stretch out and gaze at clouds.
First budding the leaves part like swallows
caught in less performance than the outstrectched children
bathing on the rocks. Even the dragonfly
holds more patience than they. Forever
changing with the wind.
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