Flowers in the fog-

our memories

of the weekend

Six years old-
this one sea shell
on the beach

Spring sun-

next to these two ducks

my heart floats

What is here-

but now without

words

From the ground

the tree from the air

the bird

Blood splatter'd

to whence we sat-

Shakespeare

Blood splatter'd

to whence we sat-

Shakespeare

Blood splatter'd

to whence we sat-

Shakespeare

Spring wind-

going it's own way

without seeking

A coal titmouse

is tapping shards of music

from the morning

Old stories-

they were still stored

in the wharf cellar

Strong wind-

the scent of daffodils

somewhere too

Morning mood-

waiting for the ping

of the microwave

Morning sun-

every dew drop

silver plated

Spring garden-

all coloured pencils

sharpened again

On a front door

an old army coat-

Budapest

Spring morning-

a dove setting daffodils

to music

The pond

at twilight-

visiting

Spring evening-

a glass half full

of moonlight

The garden

and this old body-

spring

I hear

a lonesome bird-

deep night

Guests-

no one spots dust

anywhere

Guests-

my love spots dust

everywhere

Already the garden

has me on my knees-

first spring day

Spring-

the old reeds

now break

In the tree

like a first spring leaf-

a little bird

His parents out-

the microwave meal

tastes like plastic

Power saw- 

all bird songs

the same lenght