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