Emptiness is always full;
There’s no way not to be.
That’s why I feel the bench’s pull
Beneath a steadfast tree.

I sit like David on his throne
And start to write a song.
Mosquitoes won’t leave me alone,
As if I’ve done them wrong.

The air’s complete with ancient sounds –
The chatter of the birds,
The baying of a pack of hounds
And then there are my words.

I sing them to a speckled thrush,
Which listens with a golden hush.

Photo by Richard John Lewis

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