My thinking place.
It is necessary to sidle past the green water butts
four in total
protruding over the stone path.
On the other side
a collapsing wooden fence when better days
were many moons ago
leaning now at a hundred angles.
By the wood store
one by another and another
looking precarious but curiously stable.
Insects flit amongst the wood
so busy with unknown purpose.
Honeysuckle tendrils twist, turning, changing direction
the flowers hang as thin rain drop petals
with scent subtle and divine.
I must inhale.
I am at the corner
by the centuries old stone wall
where briars angrily stake a claim
and by here I sit.
Butterflies, bumble bees, wood pigeons cooing,
the wings of swallows slicing the sky
the only sounds in the warm summer air.
This is my thinking place.