I walk in gentling mists,
Not yet burnt to memory,
Blanketing morning water,
A day yet to flow.
I walk, keeping step with the dawn songs and
Nestled in the comfort of summer branch,
The thrush and blackbird and skylark,
Their voices carried upon an early breeze.
I walk, each step inching the sun upwards,
Horizon parted in a colour pallette,
Summer red, orange, ochre and yellow.
My breath spiralling clouds in the chill of daybreak,
Longing to join with the white wisps.
They don't threaten, though
Rain may fall, it is the English
summer after all.
I walk, no thought of weather days, it won't rain,
My steps lengthen, with renewed purpose.
I chase the squirrels with my eyes, darting to high branch and canopy lost.
I pause, a momentary stillness of footsteps and breath,
A flash of mottled golden wing,
As the pheasant scratches at meagre pickings,
Cocking its glorious blood red and olive green crown.
A screech, alerted by twig snap under my clumsy boots. It is gone.
I walk again, a silent reverie.
Beside me, the river stirs, awakened by sun-glint,
The fish flash, a silvered tail swish,
And the first dragonflies skitter
With lace-wings and a glitter dance.
I walk, awaiting the inevitable destination,
But determined to delay arrival.
The morning has joined me, a new day welcome.
And those birds and fish, insects and animals,
Know the secrets of those who walk
In time with the rising sun.