View from my desk at the Shirley Sherwood Gallery

View from my desk

Branches.
Lots of branches.
All holding something important,
A flower,
A leaf,
Or a bud.

Grass.
Lots of grass,
An emerald facet tarnished with shadows,
And reflections,
Dried leaves,
And mud.

Birds.
Lots of birds,
Flapping their wings and dancing in the sun,
A Pigeon,
A Jay,
And a Chicken.

Bark.
There is a lot of bark,
And each sheet holds its own landscape,
Of moss,
Liverworts,
And Lichen.

A glass palace,
With lots of windows,
Each with their own tropical silhouette,
Of ferns,
Palms,
And climbers.

My own window,
With lots of reflections,
Several copies of the same book,
My face,
My till,
And some builders.

Benches.
Three of them,
Spread around all standing alone,
With plaques,
A bin,
And another view.

Squirrel.
Just one of them,
Manically hopping around in the daffodils,
Looking.
For.
Food.

Sky.
A big blue sky,
Speckled with cream coloured clouds,
With a sun,
A plane,
And a vapour trail.

Paths.
Lots of paths,
All winding their way in circles,
Paving,
Tarmac,
And Gravel.

So there is lots to see,
From my desk over the land.
But everything seems rather contradictory,
And everything is in repeating stands.

It's not quite fractal geometry,
The clouds are swirling in the haze,
And the sun is marking the end of the day
And soon everything will be ablaze.

The shadows are getting longer,
But they still show no order,
Because the branches grow all over the place,
Over the birds and the reflection of my face.

Everything seems so silent,
But then again it isn't.
Because there is this major race,
For life in this environment.

You can hear it.