it's right underneath,

brewing under my chest

this quiet whisper circling-

not spiraling downwards as 

i often tend to, but in a way a

gentle breeze swirls a handful

of leaves and they flutter away.

there's an inquisitive nature 

to it where there is somehow a

sense of magic at hand, and yet

somehow there must be a reason

to it all. a scientific process that 

al...

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I sit outside the door

on a slate bench

my back against the cottage wall

in the evening sun

listening to a blackbird sing

the most astonishing sweet notes

In front of me

there is elderflower

honeysuckle

buttercups spangle the uncut grass

and the old larch looms in its corner

beyond the ancient stones of Hafod

which mark my plot

The sun has not long returned

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