Memories of regeneration, of greenery and birdcalls and the wind shimmering with flower-scent and me rolling in the grass
sometimes with you, often alone
have a way of impressing themselves on the microchip in the head,
so when I return for minutes so brief they have meaning no more than hands ticking across the clock
and sit on the green swell of earth,
the connection calls me back into the centre of stillness
and I lie back to smell the grass and feel its itch on my skin, and behind my head gardeners dig the earth.