Owl And Leaf

Friday Afternoon:
In daylight, I saw the owl. White, the colour of ghosts and beginnings; deep in purpose, flying over a road.
Tired, I was, but in warm clothes. The sky was rinsed blue, the roads wet.
How the old car still rolls is mysterious.
But, there I was, driving rust through road-spray, struck admirably dumb.

Saturday Afternoon:
Rain span out from the edge of a storm.
From inside my polytunnel bubble I hear it.
I am smiling, tidying up, making ready.
My running shoes mud-sodden, left on the porch step. My legs feel good.
Earth browned hands untangle roots.
Here and there budlets burst from a stem.
Here: peeping from a pot, the pretty faces of winter pansies. 

Put into my pocket rich leaves for soup.