Contentment For Moss

Moss like a line of arrowheads
on the top of wedge-shaped
paling of the fence

starlings swinging on the rope
hung from the tree pecking
at the fat tied to it for blue tits

gulled up against the sky
riding an invisible roller coaster
a blue and white train rocks

past singing at the top of the oak
are shaking, trying to get free
(that is, the wind) less stiffly

at the seashore with smooth
sand dark grey sky
and a wind combing everything

its enough to get back
to the source, if I died now
I would be content.