From my bedroom window I can see the worn stone
paths I created in the garden. The pathway meandering
through the park leading to the sea where dog walkers
congregate every morning. Tiny paths threading their way
to Telscombe Tye and roads leading in and out of town.
Now blackbirds are back pecking the ground under
the wet brown flower heads, a robin sings on a leafless
Laburnum, a smart pigeon marches under the bird feeder
hoping careless sparrows will flick a few seeds his way
a tabby cat emerges just below the magpie’s nest.
But what I’m seeking is a new direction.
This poem came out of a workshop at New Writing South with John McCullough.
Indeed. A lovely ending.