A different sort of news

And here is the breaking news

The first frost on the grass, a crisp and brief white carpet for my morning run

This is our lead, though there are other stories – like the hale and hearty wind from the north smacking my face, the velvet autumn rose – hold the front page! I’m alive! I’d quite forgotten…

The breaking day my breaking news, the light in the east, dawn’s cue, night is past… though morning not quite here

While through the old street wall, soft flowers appear… soft flowers cracking concrete to find light, they won’t be bricked in, they give me a clue

(They learned from frail poppies which, in June, eased through tarmac in this very spot)

While falling leaves leave me falling away

This me blown hither, with blustery disregard, a me I no longer need, let it go

And the puddle at midday – I have to pause on my way – every ocean there ever was, and ever will be, here on the pavement

Soft sunlight at two, always a kiss

And early dark at five, the fading light, cascading gratitude

While beneath the massive moon, and stars from another time, before my concerns

I walk at the end of the day scooped in the net of nature’s rhythm

And sometimes I hear it, and sometimes I walk to it

A rhythm without ego, without care, though caring crucially

And this is the breaking mending news

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