John Grey poetry


The sun is out at last,

the lake surface is warming,
its shoreline towels off.

Flowers find aspiration
where once was all survival,
splay their petals
frank and bold.

I lie on the bank,
content to absorb,
no eyes
but a collection of sights,
no flesh,
but foam-board
tacked with invitations.

Bluebird in the distance,
rabbit in the near,
gauzed light
through furze and fern…
in a fresh-opened heart,
a moment applies
for permanent residence.