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.