No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.

I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.