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MAKING
SENSE LUCKILY
Luckily
the configurated space
through
which the rain goes dibble-dibble-dop
from
chestnut leaves upon the pushchair top
is
full of colour, like a crayon case,
and to the child dreams come,
stiff hand each side his tum;
green
layers overhead shift here and there
and
he coos music, partially aware.
Such
things we are, the child and I who watch,
that
garden shapes are but what we devise,
whether
or not we choose to verbalise.
The
leaf is fleshy between curve and notch.
Birds see it differently.
Worms dig and do not see.
Creatures
delightfully feel and relate;
nothing
is absolute, we all translate.
Cunning
is all we have and all we need
to
nest within the infinite and naught
which
is the world, or rather is the thought.
I
con by heart how branches run to seed.
Indulging innocence,
I know I don’t make sense,
but
sing in time with the leaves’ hushy flops
and
the small rain that dibble-dibble-dops.
Alan
Marshfield
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