The sheep cry in the distant fields
is full of leaves rustling
their secret summer song
as the birds celebrate June
with its sudden wearing of fox gloves.
Silk ballroom bees waltz in and out
to the hum of a lawnmower somewhere.
The breeze shimmering over the stream
is the calligraphy of this concerto
by a composer whose name
we have forgotten
in our rush to be silent shopping.
These spaces are breathing
balloons of clouds, a wisp
of a path leading up and up
towards a glass heaven.
A single note struck against the rim
of the universe where we are all
falling petals wishing for light.