I wrote a poem yesterday. I mean ‘wrote’ literally. It hasn’t been entered into my hard drive yet. The quality of the light on the leaves of the trees in the neighbour’s yard struck me, stirred me and I tried to piece together the mood and the scene. It turns out playful and careless, but hey …


The light changes from summer to autumn
and the sounds of an effusive sun
retreat into a muffled grey.

The sleek grey feral cat moves
from under the hibiscus shade
to curl up in the warmed sand.

I write with a pen
in a notebook, and our cat
naps on the chair behind me.

I am not writing this poem
but I long to write like T.S. Eliot
the poem that this afternoon becomes.