The crystalline light of late spring
starkly contrasts each leaf and flower
as every tree re-clothed in green, blossoms
resplendent in satin pinks and creams.
Across the water the sun refracts in shards
of shimmering silver light as a swan with
flapping wings, expands in a flash of purest white.
Blossoms wafting from tree and bower,
hover in the transient breeze, then rest
upon the water in two long extending streaks
of living, undulating pinky cream.
The cyclists race by as the joggers perspire,
rushing through life, so soon to expire.
Then the distillation of a memory regained
within a pungent smell of grass fresh cut,
or the scent of a half remembered flower.
But none more emotive than bracken,
damp in early summer and in flower.
And then chasing, hot, excited, breathless,
through traceried oceans of searing white light,
later turning the shafts to spears and
hurtling high in the sky, to land and rot,
disregarded, undisturbed to premature
decay, before blindly trudging home to tea.
