an overgrown garden,
something the same, again,
that had changed –
day the cousin of an earlier day,
fruit late fruit from
the same green tree. A boy’s brush
the colour of sky –
years days trees us.
(The sun comes to rest in his hair,
beside his bright blue laughter.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Johnston lives in Paris, but visits sometimes. He is working on a new book of poems.