A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
Under an old bluegum tree
And waits.
Waits to paint the world as it slowly manifests before the eyes.
A little lavender here,
Fuchsia there,
Green darts bouncing between blades of grass.
A shoot of brown bark
And a huge swathe of brilliant blue
Onto which tendrils of cloud are teased with a tapering stroke.
A symphony of notes is thrown up like confetti
And clings to the clouds.
A little quaver here,
A warble there,
A trill, a chatter,
A chorus of cheeps, chirps, tweets, twitters.
Colours hurled from bush to tree,
Red to green.
A musical of song and sun and dancing grass.
A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
But cannot begin
To describe this blessing.