In the cool light of rare perfect days
Air possessed such clarity he thought
Of Eden. On these mornings the world
Was newly made. Blackbirds sang their early songs
From the laundry hedges; and the boy
Heard them each time for the first time.
Alone in the singing and shining, he walked
The disused railway lines to the Donkey Tip.
He sat cross-legged on the short grass,
Intent, still, staring into a sky
Without clouds until he saw the world
Transformed into its motes, the visible element
Of his meditation. That done, he pulled a stem
Of brief grass, releasing it from its green tube
With a little squeak. He nibbled its sweetness. Leslie Norris
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