Field of Dreams

Photo by Tom Bradley on Unsplash

I am grappling with Spring —
the way the blue finch comes
to settle on the rusting gate
tells his melancholy tale
then flies off again.
Does he sing to me alone?
I suspect birds hold the cure
for the entire globe & I wonder
shall we take time to comprehend
or will we remain preoccupied
with mortal things?
All the voices in my head must
surely return to their nest.
I am farther on because
I value what is invisible —
the liquid transparency of air
& water, all that clear space upholds.
One day I shall disappear
where others simply refuse to go.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

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