an old rock

the morning bloomed

warm and tender

not a soul stirring

anything more than

the life they lived in

in the woods

a somnolent hum

borne not of insects

but the contented

solace

of a clear sky

beaming

great swathes

of golden sunshine

through a sweet young canopy

not yet two weeks old

i sat

in the simplest luxury

and dreamed

slow

day dreams

as shadows drifted

their soft grey fingers

across the moss

of an old rock