Poetry | Nothing in Particular Happened

Nothing in particular happened, No great news or plans realised, No last words said or thing had just begun, Except the promise of a day in June. It came gently as the stove was lit, Creeping in like a child,

It came in the song of goldfinch

And call of pheasant.

From my window looking south I saw

The shadow of a hare colour and come to life, A glinting gold burst through branches, Pinks, blues, yellows split across the sky. I got up and went out.

I heard water rushing somewhere,

The applause of wind through pines,

The world itself breathed wonder

At creation as moment followed moment.

No morning but this one, no other way.

I stood with hard earth beneath my feet,

The breeze kissing love on my cheeks,

Blessed with all the hours of the day.