Spume rose from the marbled sea.
Light tinkles on a sharp frost.
A rich, thick, folded silence.
The slow meditation of small green waves.
Birdsong - a little bouncing scatter or pure drops.
Quiet as a lemon
Water is subtle, finds its own level,
Yet it would drown the very Devil.
Leaves glide down in fresh sunlight
To join communities of colour,
An exhibition which celebrates
The art of accident.
I came upon a word -
It scuttled off into the bushes.
A fresh meaning lost.
A brown ball runs at random
Zig after zag
A tiny tail-less shrew
Playing life's perilous game,
The rules of which are shrewish.
Deft stillness, vegetable sleep;
Gold coins enrich the grass.
Silence grows more deep:
Some secret is about to pass.