The morning tide comes crashing in:
somewhere the call of the cockerill
the weird song of the wood pigeon
and nearby the stupid woodpecker
is giving himself a real headache.
I hear a dog's warning bark...
then more dogs join in the ruckus
and it occurs to me that this has been
the chorus of the day for longer
than even I have been living here...
before, when there were wild shrubs
and trees, invisible squirrel trails,
and underfoot leaf mould a plenty,
this tide arose and mightily stretched.
Perhaps, when I am gone away
and someone new wakes from their bed -
window wide to the country air -
they will hear a different tune?
Unrecognised, on the fly screen,
the sole black winged butterfly
will open up its wings and a fanfare
of coloured fascination will change
the observations of the world for ever.

© griffonner 2022