I wrote in the summer garden
I wrote
‘in the summer garden,
the light was golden,
the air,
clear and pure,
the dawn
lifted the skies
towards the heavens,
time turned
upon the tides
as I listened
to the waves
break upon the distant shore,’
And then I stopped
and wondered,
did it matter at all?
And then continued,
with these words
and watched
the summer fall,
‘In the east
gathered a storm
in clouds
of grey and black
with hammers
of thunder
lightning hissing
and a thousand eyes
red, aflame
and abandoned
humanity
looking scared
looking back,’
and then I paused
for a butterfly
had alighted
in the colours
of blossoming,
flowers
of morning sky,
and I asked myself
the question
holding back
in mourning,
‘Why?Why?’
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