In the Garden

Sitting in the garden watching
the bees among the lavender,
a pigeon bathing in the pond.
The sun burns down 
from a cloudless sky.

Despite the cool breeze
it is far too hot for me.
I retreat indoors.

The Breeze

(First draft…)

Cycling along oak tree-lined ways
I lift my face to the breeze
and listen to the song the wind sings
as it brushes through the trees.

Rustling through branches, it sings
of it's journey across the seas 
to reach so far inland, tells tales 
of how it plays with the ocean waves
far away on foreign seas.

I turn my back and the breeze 
plucks my clothes, eagerly pushing past 
on its journey to the next grove of trees 
to sing again its songs for them
of the tales that it weaves.

Small Hours

In the small hours
I sit in the cool of the garden
listening and watching.
The breeze in the trees 
whispers a lullaby
while in the shadows a hedgehog
bumbles about his business.


turns pages
in my notebook,
racing to an unwritten

Living Dangerously

Sleepless night, I seek a cool breeze
by the bedroom window.
Out of the shadows below
a hedgehog bumbles across the road,
living dangerously.

Little Things

Clothes drying in the breeze,
the dappled shade of trees,
the gentle hum of bees.
Little things like these
never fail to please.


A breeze breaks up the stillness,
the atmosphere is heavy and grey,
the late morning sun has vanished again
and rain is on the way.


After a grey start
Summer shows her face, blown in
on a cool, fresh breeze.


Hiatus in time.
Wondering which way to turn,
leaves blow in the breeze.

Blue Skies

Blue skies and birdsong,
red tulips drinking sunshine,
wind chimes on the breeze.

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