What I want to tell you is
I can dream with my eyes wide open,
like riding a bicycle without hands
down a tree-lined road,
weaving in and out of shadow.

What I count as treasure is
a robin’s nest neatly cached
in a corner of my windowbox,
a tight squirm of five hatchlings,
mum cheeping menaces nearby.

What I long for is
more than a memory of
sharing a skiff tied out of river drift,
feeding Pimm’s salad from an
  upturned cup
to pairs of paddling ducks, with
one eye on the fruit and one on
  each other.