sitting together

absent of conversation

waiting for a break

arriving in parts

of which there are forty-three

building a table

in the wind trees mourn

the early flowers of spring

all shrouded in snow

a large fluffy bee

found shelter in our kitchen

ahead of the snow

exchanging a tweet

on the beauty of cabbage

its intricate heart

trees now in blossom

inside I chop veg for soup

whilst waiting for snow

through the morning mist

scorching red geraniums burn

the fog from my mind

sweeping the back yard

of empty snail shells, polished

gifts from the blackbird

a fractured summer

human cacophany starts

one hour earlier

a pause in birdsong

do birds nap during the day

when our clocks advance?