The dance of light on fissured bark.
A conker’s polished sheen.
Angled petals of red and gold. Fine stems
that tether whirling butterflies.
An oak leaf’s quiet surrender
to the gentle spikes of grass.
My grandson’s fingers
curled around mine
as we skip from east to west
and back to east again.
This poem is pinned to Greenwich Park on the Places of Poetry website: