It is difficult to concentrate right now: some soap opera
is being played out through the medium of smart phone.
Meanwhile, the sky is a pleasing shade of grey and the rain
adds a slight distortion to the trees where there is a shed redolent
with the perfume of a petrol lawnmower.
A blue bicycle with three-speed Sturmey Archer gears
slouches in the corner, the black leather satchel strapped
to the saddle for carrying the lunch box, Thermos flask, newspaper
and other essential non-essentials to get through the day.
Other things appear
through the rough green leaves
and the star shaped ones
that look as if they have been
cut from brown parcel paper.
In the log scented gloom of the shed
the red reflector on the mudguard signals our
present past location; the glint travelling
into the imperfect future,
the silence blighted
by this dumb phone.