I love watching how the air blows through the leaves of a tree.

The sky constantly breathes life into our surroundings.

A suble reminder that something is Present without being seen.

It's eighteen twenty-six,
a deserted esplanade,
no hen nights, no fish 'n chips,
an onshore wind, a wave cascade.

An observer sits at waters' edge
on a rotting timber sledge.
He's looking seaward, not watching,
not waiting, deeply contemplating.

Then he paints a picture of this place,
a record in suble water colour,
of a man on a sledge at the waters' edge.

Anguish sinks and floods my mind
Basking in a suble muting that covers and clouds
A smile paint on rusted steel
A clear path to the muddled mass below