What a confluence, Max, across the hemispheres. Your poem of course cuts to the chase: delights. Light, birds, plants, people, all there for the observing, if we only bother.
> On 14 Jan 2015, at 9:27 am, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Not the News
> What delights me in old age?
> anything? Lately it’s been the sky
> above the lake, any time of day
> or night; on the lake those birds -
> tiny in perspective fishing -
> these flying wide curving this way.
> Antidotes for the evening news.
> Town birds familiar from every
> town I’ve been in - sparrows,
> pigeons. ‘Don’t feed the birds’? -
> hard not to, even those crows
> massing pecking on lawns,
> glossy quarrelsome superb.
> Newsworthy? not in the least.
> Mushrooms after rain, mosses
> revived for winter, herbs, shrubs,
> cauliflowers gone to seed,
> kale in pots outdoing flowers.
> First daffodils, stirring of crocuses.
> The season’s same old news.
> Delight? the sight of children,
> women, even a few men -
> faces, graces, sometimes voices;
> places and spaces - for example:
> this avenue in perspective,
> this corner space with benches.
> Sad and bad though all the news is,
> here our ignorance protects us.