Stop and listen to the singing
of the thrush, the sunlight bringing
motes of gold, drifting earthwards
and a soaring flock of songbirds
sketched upon a winter sky.
Leap, with the kestrel fly
high above the sweeping dry
and seed-pod rattling grasses,
watch where her shadow passes;
that’s where the small things lie.
Take this day in trembling hands,
close your fingers on its sands,
on its colours bright, and keep
its golden light when rain clouds weep
their cold stony tears.