Sitting on a shingle beach
The wind all aroundthe subtle texture
of that one pebble Opening the door
The morning light floods in Wrinkles
the sofa just the way it is
After the sitter’s gone Somewhere
in between a rock and a stream Sunny day
when the tide is out
the emptiness Our chatter
Inside a universe of birdsong I am still here
the pipes of the old house
sing the dawn chorus
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device
