The Magnolia Shadow

To capture the welcome sunlight
sat in this garden chair, is no crime.
Watching the cloud trawlers work
the changing palette of Constable’s eye.
Subjects of the wind’s intent
we feel, and hear, yet rarely see
the variegated boundaries we create.
Soiled by shadows a patchwork
landscape is creased and dented,
lit sporadically in broken patterns
as ladders of blue trail cirrus tentacles.
Beyond these walls life calls us
in every bleat and bird that sings
in slow vibration of wet stone walls,
crisscrossed atop the lines of earth’s palm
in a stoic patience of the sentinel oak,
whispered in the rhythm of wind turbines.
But here inside this suntrap warmth
feel the racing drone of annual insects,
no moment wasted in between fuchsia lips
and tiger orange lilies, nectar sipped, savoured.
Only the fleeting swallows that dip
clipping the edge of summer’s lament
know this perennial passing sorrow,
for just as the Magnolia shadow fades
when these clouds collate to morn
I shall be gone, an echo reflected
only in faded memories or words.