The Man Next Door

Back door ajar –
carpet slippers,
striped dressing gown,
he stands for a while.

Meditates.
Hands on hips –
appreciates the air.

Detects the nip,
a touch of springtime frost,
the imminence of sunrise.

Finger to the wind,
breathes in the hint of jasmine,
sweet mock-orange, philadelphus,
night-scented phlox.

Cups hand to ear.
Hears a blackbird’s danger call.
Suspects his Tabatha, prowling
in the flowerbeds.

Frowns – brow furrowed
like a crinkled cabbage leaf
as it shadows umber eyes.

Savours in his mind,
greeting morning –
bottom of the garden
in dappled dawn’s first light.

Watch him strolling back
as he picks his way
between the brambles
and the guilder roses.

Wonder how he knows,
as I wave, ‘Hello!’ from my window,
in response to a nod and a smile
that says, ‘Good day!’ And a flourish
of his white-tipped cane.