The sunlight falls,
flickers off leaves and fronds
of fern,
weaves patterns in the hedgerows
that guard the garden,
tumbles and teases the edges of shade,
the glade alight with it,
hugging the watching trees
that are icons,
the grass between a prayer mat.
I sit and soak in the sun’s syrup
as I lose myself
in the soaring sky.

The place changes,
lifts off from the physical, visual
reality of suburban plot
to become a world charged with the glister
of new-born buds, of ants
scurrying in the dirt, of God;
the invisible vigour of life’s longing,
the surging push inside cells,
inside souls, tingles in the air
like incense.