There is a beautiful meadow of buttercups.
They catch the light of the sun.
I want to lay down amongst them
and strip right down to the skin
to feel the breeze and the air
and feel a full flood of life.
There is no-one around to care.
But when i draw closer to them
I see the electric fence.
The buttercups need defence
from a barbarian soul like mine.
meadow
At the Water Meadow
After three days of sunlight
the May bursts forth,
shining white stars amongst hedgerow leaves.
In the marshlands tall grasses wave feathered plumes of gold and cream,
tender on green silken stems.
The sycamore bedecked in bright green catkin tails sways in a gentle breeze,
a reminder of lambs.
A blackbirds sings atop the cedars outstretched limbs,
a dark silhouette against bright blue sky.
Dandelions with sun-filled faces
spread across suddenly verdant pasture.
The air is filled with the scent of new mown grass,
fresh cut blades scatter at the grey roads side
as I wander home in the falling light.
At my door,
one dandelion forces its way upwards
through the red tiles of the doorstep,
spring strong, shining,
a signal that summer comes.
Life bursts into bud
quiet fanfare for summer
warmth, wonder, delight.
Love is equally enlightening.
The Dreaming Path 