the bench

The Bench.

I saw the sun rise,
from the bench at the core of the garden.

The first beams of
light span out like a half turned wheel -

exploded the myth –
that night could hold on, past the bird's

excitement: the
reality of the garden. Idealism contrived.

.

I sat with a cup of
tea: lost in my thoughts, soaked in sunlight,

early dew spilled
over the rush of roses, and spider's spangle silvery threads,

amongst the thorns.
I brushed my leg on the side of the wooden plank

felt the hardness of
it, the pliability of it, the softness of it, as real as imagination.

.

The Bee's content in
their commands were diving into and out of the trees

ready for the
exploration explained by their Queen. I bow to her

as she waves from
the Hive. Large and unembarrassed by her size.

An Icon amongst her
faithful. Where is the viability study of such

a large family? Was
time and motion suitably examined?

.

I give up the bench
to the insects, and the occupants of the garden,

inside lays the
computer and movement of mind. The tea is cold.

Inside: no sunshine,
no rush of sweet air, conversation as stilted,

as last night's
cheese is a nightmare of unresolved confrontations.