I’ll sit here under this tree a while…
We’ll sit right here under this tree a while, the concert starts at four,
the Chaffinch starts it off, you say,
you tell me the sounds to listen for.
We’ll watch the dappled sunshine flicker and twist, listen to the high pitch trill of the BlueTit or
the early morning Blackbirds song, Rejoicing in your life, and touching it with its Kisssss.
I’ll sit here under this tree a while, and wait
for you to write,
your familiar script will drop upon my mat with news of this and that, we’d have a plan for Derby, Manchester or The Edge, you’ll decide, you’ve that got off pat.
I sit alone under this tree and still wait for you to write.
You pen your craft, of Poland, plights and aliens, writing skills of ten thousand years, (and that’s a fact).
with news of responsibilities that come with that.
You’ll tell me how your characters are, how Hinks was moved, or how Burning worm has tracked.
We’ll listen to some music Carl, take Grappelli just for now, then have a little Django later, to finish off the show.
I’m sitting here, still waiting Carl, while the evening sun goes down, they’re setting tables and chairs for us, a restaurant has come to town.
Or, I’ll shall cook lamb Kleftiko, not stolen this time and you of course, will bring the finest wine,
and sit and stroke a cat, or two, then we’ll wander streets of charm and age, in no particular rush,
The heat above the rustic roofs, you’ll gently guide me through the crush.
You tell us we have to wait a while,, until you write,
I sit here in the evening warmth and watch the sun go down. I can smell those yellow roses, the ones you wrote about and watch their petals gently fade and fall out.
I hear the chink of the blackbirds evening call, and the Cuckoo say “goodnight”.
I’ll reflect up these special gifts
and ponder,, what will you write?.
Kate
Kate Creed:
27/05/2020
