Where is the swimming gear,

Lost in the packing of summer clothes from a season gone by,

Now reminded by the tulips and the ever-growing lawn,

Needing my attention.

 

My soul longs for the island and its flags.

Drying on a salty evening sun.

 

The flower shows its petals,

Like luminescent windows, light is caught in its tracks,

Turning on the beauty previously unnoticed,

And now clear for all to see.

 

Can I shine a light on something today?

 

Springtime, the season for planting anew.

The crop of last season is devoured and gone,

Time to think again.

What I might reap this season.

 

Dependent on what I sow, and how I tend it.

 

 

Not stained glass, made by an artist,

But nevertheless, created by the dirt of years,

Traffic, perhaps even wagons,

Grab onto you, fused by raindrops,

Until eventually. Nothing can be seen.

 

Yet the light still passes through,

Giving hope a way forward,

To a clearer way.

 

Perhaps.

Taking us seamlessly from one location to another,

Across a pastoral scene, ignored by most,

As we hurry to and fro work,

Across countless bridges.

 

Who support us and our lifestyle.

 

 

Walking towards the door, there is no light,

The uncut carpet fresh on my bare feet,

Boarded windows encase darkness,

And the mystery within.

 

Yet, an open door invites me to explore.

 

 

 

 

The marsh meets the river,

Spilling mud and run-off into the receptive stream,

Darkening and enriching the soil it now carries,

Downstream for others to use.

 

At a later date.