It seems contentment becomes or is
knowing and resting
on the spoilt coast of the kiss.
This morning jets of blossom
in the blossoming tree
spring a surprising red,
wagtails tack to the lawn
and the world throws back its head
neither knowing nor resting
the strong tree where the clear-eyed
blackbird’s whistle and nesting necessity sum,
there in the blood of blossom and bole, the sun.
(from “The Light Of Day (I)” to be published soon)