If I look hard enough

I see you

striding along the path

your denim shorts and white shirt

striking among a sea

of walkers.

As your pace quickens,

I fall behind

till you come back around.

I toy with a stone

watch the crows

flapping about.

The early birds eats the worm,

isn’t that what you told me?

 

Coming back to where I was, or am now,

waiting for you to come around

and call out,

I wonder if your skies

are just as blue

or as colourless, or grey

or as smog-ridden

on a winter’s day?

Does the bougainvillea

sweep the pond,

do cold morning drafts

rustle your thoughts?

Early birds and all that jazz, you used to say.

I wonder who is eating the worm.