Only with hindsight -
Realization sets in ~
Ireland’s night silence.

Foxes in the yard -
Playing ball, forget the wild ~
‘Till the door latch clicks.

Flower, not so big -
Verge-side, at its best, happy ~
Perhaps best of all.

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Sick escalator -
Jazz sounds escape from below ~
Trapped saxophonist.

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Still suburbia -
But it’s not so safe elsewhere ~
Under the same moon.

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Fresh black truffle salt -
Stinking out the spice cupboard ~
Rather pleasantly.

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Aircon and birdsong -
Seems we’ve our own cardinal ~
Red as our mozzies.

Making furniture -
But first, some lapsang souchong ~
The wind in the trees…

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Firefly filled garden -
Fork Lightning and Thor’s hammer ~
Toccata and Fugue.

For once I stay in -
Enjoy silence of my own ~
Birdsong, on my own.

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