Quarantining in my garden

The Payne’s grey sky

Billows softly with smooth

Thick strokes of ochre,

Neither dark nor light.

Some of the flowers

Fold up now, conserving energy.

But daisies stand proud

And the red roses glow


A lone seagull flaps

And glides.

Dusk is still, but not empty.

I will pluck a pink raspberry

And let its bumpy softness

Melt into my tongue.

And wonder at the size of the grape leaves

Competing with the fig leaves:

“I have more,” says one,

“I can spread further,” says the other.

Jagged-edged strawberry leaves

Umbrella over delicate stems

Wiry and fierce.

The sky is so thick

I cannot see the landing jet

I hear just overhead.

13 July 2021

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