There are three of us here together

myself, the window, and the garden  

as if one, a looking moment.

And the same light falling on each

though differently through tall

and skeletal trees.

 

The garden readies itself for the Spring surge;

a bird-shaped smudge on the glass – blackbird

or hawk? prey or predator –

throws the hue of old hydrangeas through

the whole spectrum, as that old owl

Newton had named it.  

 

I am blinded equally by colour

and clear air under a strengthening sun.

They confuse and exhilarate

with their profusion; their commentary

adding textures that contextualise

everything, everyone.