100_3810 cropThe day’s wind has died

Dust rises from my hoe

And falls in place.

The body is tired,

But at peace

In the rhythm of work,

In the calm setting of the sun

In the midges wafting like ghosts

Through the silence.


Heat gives way to cool air

And the scent of the sea.


Purple clouds glow orange

At the edges

In a turquoise sky.


I pause to rest,

To listen

To breathe

The smell of my garden.


I should stop,

Go inside,

Wash the dirt off my arms and legs.


One more minute.

A few more weeds.

Then one last gaze.


The peas glow in the gold

Of the evening sun.

The onions stand proud.

The lettuces reach up in supplication.

I see it

And declare it good.