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Patterns in the day’s weave

warm days allow a sense of space
of opportunity.
Clouds are high, with flattened bottoms
as if smoothed upwards with a plasterer’s trowel,
or ducks floating on a pond of air filling gently
from drying vegetation, granite warming in the sun.
My sheets dry on the line so quickly
that I contemplate making the beds directly
with sun warmed bedclothes.
This is just one task.
Water tanks need fillling,
electrics need resolving
and Angus Halfhorn is chasing Demi Og,
down Mrs Logan’s Meadow
followed by her bemused bull calf
who seems uncertain whether to claim his right to her teats
or to mount her.
There is no highway to the day’s traffic,
and many diversions.
The calm weather allows the martens unconstrained freedom,
to revel in their mastery of the air
even as they pursue single minded application to their hungry young.
I stand for a time on the deck as they weave their subtle threads
around my home, my work,
their home, their work.
Catching sight of my reflection in the sliding door,
I am surprised stationary:
but spinning
or caught in the strands,
the glass does not reveal.
P

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