This is how the day looks ...
now the rain has washed
its bright face
and the distant sea is the clean
blue of a surgical gown.
Far below me I can see
a patterning of terracotta
roof-tiles steepled
among the chestnut groves
the human sprawl
between the hills and sea
arranged with alien geometry.
Raindrops have sluiced the olives
dripping on the terrace; and
the happy sun is tracing
the outline of a plum tree
on the stone.
A peregrine stoops
silently past me slicing
a murderous trajectory
through the sweet air.
I'm feeling nostalgic for my little house high up in the olive groves - England is very grey, gloomy and wet at the moment, and the political and financial situations match the weather. This poem is far from finished yet - it's just a series of observations written one morning sitting on the terrace finishing my breakfast coffee.
now the rain has washed
its bright face
and the distant sea is the clean
blue of a surgical gown.
Far below me I can see
a patterning of terracotta
roof-tiles steepled
among the chestnut groves
the human sprawl
between the hills and sea
arranged with alien geometry.
Raindrops have sluiced the olives
dripping on the terrace; and
the happy sun is tracing
the outline of a plum tree
on the stone.
A peregrine stoops
silently past me slicing
a murderous trajectory
through the sweet air.
I'm feeling nostalgic for my little house high up in the olive groves - England is very grey, gloomy and wet at the moment, and the political and financial situations match the weather. This poem is far from finished yet - it's just a series of observations written one morning sitting on the terrace finishing my breakfast coffee.
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