Imprinting

broad leaves
of impervious sycamores
jigsaw patterns on a brick wall
moss in the crevices almost black
simple sounds to tack the shadows in place –
a child’s giggle, a hedge trimmer –
and farther back – a hundred greens…
a thousand ? Easier to count
slate pigeons on the terra cotta tiles

…a troupe of comedian sparrows
shows up on the stroke of lunchtime –
notified perhaps by the complaint
of an iron gate – and I forget
who or what I’d been waiting for

for one pinned-down sliver of now –
the haze of eternity – coddled
in sweet-smelling warm weather –
a mindless egg in silky straw

for the space within a heartbeat
I belonged to the world of the garden
and all that belongs to me now
still belongs to that moment

.
.

 

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