at a bus-stop, waiting on your own,
a day of dulled cloud, almost rain,
your mind tuned to an inner moan
of life being too much grey, again.
And, say, your only company’s
a straggling hedge, a litter bin,
the road’s dirt edge, some scrubby trees,
a cold wind sanding down your skin.
But your eye wanders, say, and there’s
damp holly, leaves like gleaming glass,
wet-bottle-green; its brilliance shares
a flash-light quiver in the grass
so, looking harder, say, you see
a blackbird’s eye, his orange bill
deep in the dandelions, three
fat daisies, one late daffodil
then start to match all this to words,
your own to catch, exact – but how?
the glittering laughter of the birds?
the noise of yellow here and now?
The bus turns up. Your mind’s alive –
making, remaking: words that sway
and dance and shine, and yours to drive
forward and eager. Share them, say?