I was born bewildered
at dawn, when the rain ends;

uniquely no-one in particular, a pauper in a shack of a flower.

At dawn, when the rain ends,
things drift about seeking shape.

I saw pollen pass through trees
in no rush,
possessing nothing, not even weight.

I set out, taking my whole world with me,
wrapping myself round in my own identity as thin as a soap-film,

and all that day I was a wind-borne eye.
I couldn't put myself
at rest, not even for one second:

increasingly unfocused, spinning
through the disintegrating kingdom of a garden,
and going nowhere
and seeing myself at all angles;

and I was huge,
like you would make a stone guitar,
a cryptic shape of sphere and wires.

The Garden RHS (2000) 125:  12-13