I love the pungent scent of sun drenched pines.
Bell sounds uttered by mountain stream.
Soaring eagle holding up the sky.
Fleeting glimpse of marmot, mink or goat.
I thrill to vicious tug of taken lure.
Lift of sagging sails to quickened breeze.
The set of edges, carving out a turn.
Peace of camp fires in the grainy dusk.

I love the clean warmth, children, at bed time.
My turn to read, with feeling, ancient tales.
Golden fleece on pillow,  dragons teeth asleep.
Lips softly open, speak in gentle dreams.
A child’s help that doubles all the work.
Touch damaged tools, scarred so long ago.
Now pride in watching skilful stroke of axe.
Or subtle move of tiller to the wind.

I love the clash of colours, flowers make.
Spicy smells of herbs crushed under foot.
Whirring wings, buzzing bees, sleeping snake.
Raccoon who watches me, Bandit hid.
The Fall, golden leaves, bonfire smoke.
Shrieks of laughter harvested with rakes.
Fog to wake the deep voiced channel buoy.
Tangles of kelp, sculptures on the beach.

I love the roll of sounds to phrase a thought.
Pens spill words quicker than fingers write.
Ideas that spring like tigers from the grass.
Memories wrung with tears, our deepest hurts.
Dyslexic’s dream, to see it written down.
Wonder of child’s face, favorite poem.
Sparks float in adult eyes, once mired dull.
Holes etched by words in waiting minds,
scream.

 
 
David Garlick, Victoria, February, 1995