It’s own kind of pretty
On a day otherwise
Oh so grey and dreary
And here am I
In my little boat
Hauling logs across
The slate blue sea
Of a world
I hold in awe
I set down roots
On which to stand
There hold on dear
Draw in the land
From bathers and sun-seekers
The summer of crowds
To seekers of solitude
Contemplative connection
With Earth and sea
And self
A place of wistful
Beckonings
To my
Imagination
I find peace, calm
In a space undistracted
By the flash of colour
Or the dominance of black or white
But from here
Across the inlet
It resembles only
A small forest of brick and steel
Concrete and glass
Its denizens
Too small to register
I am the tree
Not just the leaf
I manifest
Not of the tree
Not separate from it
But the tree, itself