It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air