Poetry

A yellow and a red weaver pecks at porridge on the grass,
some sparrows gather twittering around the water bowl
and I cannot think about a more beautiful picture
when the air is ink blue and dew shines on the flowers
and it feels if right here man can reach to God,
as if nature is as it once was,
when even the sun-birds frolics around
and it feels as if the bees are beckoning me,
when a kind of serenity comes to the garden
and together you and I write a own story
when every rose and iris comes to perfection,
when there is something magical to each flower
and here and there one is snow white,
when doves coo in the chestnut tree,
when I do love you and your garden,
when a kind of youth comes to my days of age,
and morning-glories examine the sun open mouthed
where it hangs high in the bright blue.