In a cemetery.

Awareness of breeze

rustling of leaves

dappled in the low lying, declining, fading, entropic sun fall.

The roar of traffic, pale blue sky, lightly clouded.

Squirrel, magpie, is that a jackdaw?

Copious scattering, not smattering, of flowers...

now long bereaved, bereft.

Hard wood bench making its presence felt below shoulder blade.

Perhaps I can write creatively after all?

Divine spark?! And so the wind rises, only to fall, subside.

Wisdom ancient and/or modern?

How the remaining leaves roar!

Where are the rabbits? I recall a solitary young fox

Too hasty and eager, scattering prey to all havens points of safety.

Do they move goalsposts too?

I spend much of my time desperately sorry

not necessarily sorry for my existence, no, but

apologetic, too over-polite, worried, anxious what others think. Surely I'm not unloveable?

I'm a nice decent bloke...so what's wrong?

Look after, be kind, generous, gentle, wise on yourself

That feels better!