car windows down: the heat
came in waves, my hair
blowing; picturesque Pitlochry
basking in the sun.  Back
home my green world
claims me, mountain in haze,
none of my wee plants
gave up their ghost.  My
Mum visited me, at plea -
the hand pressure strong,
pulsing from another dimension -
how did she recognise me
among the billions - did I
look like pure light to her,
strings strung together in a
special way that made me
unique to recognise?  She
stood by me anyway, saying
I am here.  You are fine.
She is gone again.  I have
only the birds and their song.
Try some silence and peace.
The beautiful trees.  The Aspens
with their late leaves.

One Year Round The Sun
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