In this sleepy idyll

In this sleepy idyll

There is an ease to living

When time moves at less

Than a meander

Yesterday embedded

In every step

Morning sun splintered across

A glimmering sea

Which appears solid enough

To walk upon

Without recourse to miracles

It is the insubstantial

Oxymoron

Of humanity

Its robust frailty

Fond folly of being

A concept

Far lighter than its

Own footfall

Reminded upon itself

In the echo of discord

From a distant shore

Where lives seem worth

Little more

Than it takes to ignore

Their plight

With sight unseen

An easy position to adopt

In a converted loft

Beneath a sunshade

An ultra-violet barricade

Sitting by a pool

In the vividly toned blue

Of a Hockney

With nothing to stay

The illusion of permanence

When there is a glass of

Ice cold Chardonnay

A liberal supply

Of sunscreen

And a Gold Card.