Poets can pause the winds
long enough for clouds to
peer into gardens, en passant.

We are in a pod, better again,
a walled womb; where sunshine
and shadows cohabit ensemble.

Butterflies orientate in straight
lines, serendipitous bees alight,
but are never keen to leave.

Birds build extra nests for the
ne’er-do-wells, which are stored
internally over winter.

Climbing roses race wisterias
to the eaves, kerb'd lawns look
on with gleeful envy.

Filtered air is sieved through
linden leaves. Sound is hidden
behind pales of silence.

It is an island and there is
no lighthouse to find us, we
have discovered nirvana.