We come back to the orchard again
a blue silence has fallen on us,
a moment’s curling breeze sways
ripening fruit, lifts leaves,
ruffles ferns and lilies,
clusters long underlying grasses.
We no longer know how we arrived here
or along what paths we meandered along,
as scents of something wild and beautiful,
like the passing breath of hope lingers
in its wake.
Still we walk in the meadow between roses
budding and the first leaves burgeoning,
the air belongs to the Larks who sings
for the sun, splashing colours towards sunset.
67paintings 