Up Hillcrest steps to where
the crumbling, grey, defining wall
becomes a bare
and narrow ledge
holding back the jungle of beyond.
Honeysuckle, fern and bramble
slowly amble
and quietly digest
the Hillcrest
fence.
(A peaceful study in impermanence.)

On the boundary hedge,
a green and flowering ivy has blossomed there
in the late summer sun,
and the still air
has turned the ocean
from a surfers’ paradise
into a millpond.

Butterflies
have descended in a great cloud
of Red Admirals, Painted Ladies, Small Coppers,
with hover flies (and a wasp or two).
A great crowd
of revellers who flutter and feed
jostle and pay no heed
to the passing of the year,
the touch of autumn,
the fading of the here
and now into a colder season yet to come.

They stay all day
and are content
with the wholly present.
And there is one who sees it all
and smiles
(and one who does not).

.