In the hammock

 

On days of tomatoes

Cheese and bread

When light breezes

Make the orchard leaves

Chuckle and quiver

With gossip from the mountains

 

When a head of dead wine

Falls in step

With the mood

Rather than being a weight

On your ankle

 

There is time to marvel

At the power of stillness

And the way that calm

Can be the raison d'être.

 

Our eyes were made

To gaze on the way that tree,

A verdant poodle king,

Sits next to the blue milk of sky:

The cool side of a pillow.

And the immovable heat of July; today.

 

Like this, you are moved

Through the world

Flipped, rocked and nudged

Louchely, to its will.

 

De-centralised.

 

This beauty owes us nothing.

We are inescapably part of it

But the most inelegant, heavy organ.

 

Even the mountains

Have a superior

Lightness of being.

 

And these two trees

That hold you up

Have memories beyond

Those clocks

That we imprisoned ourselves with.