The cursor blinks.
The rose blooms sway their heavy heads.
The spot light is over me.
The eye of the storm approaching.
Do I shrink away, play small, hide my light, soften my voice?
Or do I step up, step out and speak out?
The crows, in their black, circle and jostle high in the silver birch
Brazen and loud, confident and raucous.
No space for self conscious, over-thinking.
They leave as suddenly as they arrive, on to the next thing.
The robin lands on the gate,
it’s red breast plain to see, to all but him.
Perching proudly, lightly, quietly, softly.
He flies off only to return to the same spot.
A life half as high, still valid, still visible, still lived,