Feeding the Ducks

Daffodils unfurl yellow funnels
as croci raise their purple cups;
the afternoon un-knits its muscling hours,
massaging time with birdsong.
 
The shopping trolleys sleep
in weedy rests at river's edge;
"For Sale" signs go unnoticed
inert on paint-cracked poles;

and everything breathes at last:
electric drills are droning bees;
the joiner's hammer is just a woodpecker;
a passing siren is rapid eye movement.

A train snores across the bridge
as lawnmowers lie out on growing lawns,
and yawning windows invite the air;
and everything breathes at last.

Babies sleep in padded pushchairs
suspended under towpath light;
swans exhale - their necks U-bend
in slow motion, dipping white.

All is birdsong: a roost of wood pigeons,
the ripple-wakes of paddling mallard,
given this day their daily bread
while sun and moon whisper overhead.