Moving in the garden

My body is free

As new expectant air,

Mellow in the coming.

The push of bulbs

Rises through my limbs,

The sap called by the source

To come and become.

Is there better than being,

Just being?

The gnats know,

Ascribing their wisdom

In choreography

Written on the breeze

Where the afternoon is nothing

But a pale yellow light.

Moss World Within The Gift


In millennial silence
beings conceived at the very beginnings
unfold as they have timeless
known revolutions diurnal
and the cyclic swing of earth
in its year long voyage
in praise of wisdom
gifted by the star sol.

To know a billion years unaltered
and be in generation’s span
of always true to sun –
receiving the endless flow
of time’s nourishment
and the gracious matter
felt by every quivering leaf
as heat’s warm bosom
and light’s so gentle hand

– is first and only truth
within the kingdom
of father in heavens certainty.
To flourish is birthright
upon the world’s good earth;
and moss, guiltless in the whole,
takes its rightful place
among the children,
and thoughtless absorbs elation
as it was so lovingly sent.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Avenue Of Finches

The finches and dawn tits
Make an avenue of the gardens,
Traversing boundary and fence
As if they weren’t hurdles
But opportunity along the way.

Each March they make their highway here,
Gathering seeds from spent winter stems.
And from pods, crisp in bunches, they cling,
Feeding as if the wait were over
And the joyous work of spring begun.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Intense Concentration


Beneath the succulent leaves,
In the shadow cast
Where harsh sun
To a gentle dappling,
Proboscis flowers
Scent the musty undergrowth
With sweetness derived
From intense concentration.
Like the artist
Who dedicates the hours
To find a pure manifestation,
The flower too
Is single minded
In its delicate craft
And delights in its creation.

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Spring Dance Of Freedom


The earth turns
In incremental light.

The day expands
In millimetre shoots,

A green touch
Like lovers’ skin

Mirroring pale light
And new sun contours.

Each bulb nestles
In the mother’s pulse,

Follows exact
Circadian match:

The beautiful dance
Of closest partners.

Like all living things
In sweet, earthy bondage,

Not one strays
Nor splits disobedient

From irrefutable law
And physical fact

Of freedom
To be absolved,

And to shadow
First, ethereal footsteps.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016