In the garden.

sugar stealers stealing in
dancing lightly on the sugar tin and
crickets playing,
bees making mead because even bees
have that need for a drink,
ladybirds and some are men
what?
say that again,
ladybirds and some are men,
painted brightly to dance as
lightly as
the sugar stealers stealing in.

Winter is all black,
its robe rubs salt into the wound
the convergent bruises, rustle our being.
Gifting us a load of happenstance.
Angels and minotaurs don't speak for us
I say this quiet apparition,
gives us an imperfect  surprise
if only for an unrepentant moment.

I’ve heard it,
Familiar tune sung with foreign words.

I’ve seen it,
An image painted with strokes unfinished, of wrong, awkward colour.

I’ve felt it,
Sensation lost, only traces buried under my finger nails, too long.

It’s there,
Then it’s gone.