It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me

of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.

Like torchlight from an invisible source,

it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,

illuminating the darkest part of my garden.

 

The new-grown laurels have taken root,

wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.

They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench

with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:

a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.

 

The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth

amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,

their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial

of any future state of wither or decay.

An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.