I wish
I was the chubby grey cat
curled up tight, dozing
in the warm sunshine,
lying behind the flowerpots,
observing
a symphony in the garden unfold.

I wish
I was the scarlet rose hips,
high above the trellis,
eying the changing colours of the day,
listening
to warm whispers from the trees,
eaves dropping
on secrets of scented rose buds,
or the bitter woes of sobbing poppies,
gossiping
with hot pink hibiscus,
on the hidden underworld of leaves.

I wish
I was a striped bumble bee
whizzing from lilac to lavender,
or a fluttering butterfly
sipping on sweet nectar,
or a fat spider,
weaving silken threads
spinning trapped lives to death.

How nice it is
to daydream,
as I sit looking out the window
on a barren winter garden,
with the promise of spring,
the hope of summer,
of light and warmth
on a slate winter’s day.