Brainstorm of this afternoon, which I spent in an unusual way, sitting in the garden, as I used to do, and have not done with so much enjoyment for at least six years.
Tempted out by beautiful memories,
Wonder in the seconds,
Bright wonder of birdsong, twittering and full,
Fantasia never dwindles.
Blades of grass, still and twitching,
Bowl of the sky, unblemished blue,
Drone of arching planes on a string,
Scrape of saw, thud of hammer,
Cheeky sycamore kites,
Daisies, wholesomely wild, unconditional cheer,
Ripple of unseen breeze, gentle tugging at ears,
One side, smooth warmth of liquid gold through pristine air,
Other side, shadow of shiver, wishing for another layer.
Grey concrete, cracks of dust and sand, rotting carpet of moss.
Buzz of a summer fly, waves it along.
Snatches of blind talk.
Flaws of perfection.
Humped ocean of green and beige,
Hollow of the lake and stream, invisible underground.
Fingermarks on the water tank,
Dandelion pigment, giraffe on the white wall,
Biro trenches on grey fence panels.
Trenches of dreams
That happened. Evidence tells them.
Fantasia never dwindles;
The wonders of childhood never fade
Childhood is swallowed through the hungry mouth of adulthood.
Sometimes its memories can be unearthed,
And brought to life
Briefly, as if they had never been absent
As if they had always been there,
For they have,
They will never go,
But ability to remember can go
When childhood departs
And simplicity dies.
Frog of life,
Confined to my own patch of time,
It is everything,
The whole world
Of plots and plays and fancies
The boundaries of my world have grown broad round the middle
And my old world has grown small in comparison
As the awareness eats away
And the science gobbles imagination.
But here at the level I remember so well
It is just the right size once again
In order to accommodate my memories.
All else is too large and cannot fit.
So I am restored,
Briefly, as if I had never changed.
Cat in the shadow, cat in the sun,
Loop in the wall,
Weather vane rusty,
N points downwards, South,
All twisted to ancient perfection.
Accuracy is hypocrisy.
Shadows getting tall,
Blinking in lamplight.
But not waning
Because it is now and here
And always now and here.
Because fantasia never dwindles.