The Drift of Hand

Hermetically sealed in a green

World of silence and bird-talk

Ignorant of humankind, ah what

A day of days communing with strange

Creatures of the ground; a yellow

Lizard wriggled out of sight;

Even the mosquitoes ignored

The drift of hand amid the compost. . .

Slow motion world; there again, long gone

Lay the infant intent on a natural world

The peopled commune still to come

And go, possibility time’s child.

 

Copyrighted by the author

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