Porthole

by Pat Sutherland

Through the porthole
the trees pass in procession,
graceful branches Tai Chi swaying.
Dog roses drift in, blowing
pink kisses,
bramble blossom promises
bounty to come.


Nature has reached her peak,
her zenith of greenness,
parading in full uniform,
epaulettes and all,
waving her flags.

Today she cares nothing
that her colours will rust
and winter will snatch her curling leaves
and scythe her grass:
for spring will follow
to herald another summer
celebration.

Nature through the porthole
affirms the fatal dissonance,
our niggardly four seasons:
we bud and grow, blossom
and wither, rootless
 in arid earth
that knows no spring.

This day, of sun and dappled shadow,
of light on water
we will hold dear.