Lunchtime in the garden

A tiny, green humming bird hovers over bright red blossoms,
unhindered by the white linen flapping on the line;
uninhibited by my hungry, human presence,
gobbling up the first fruits of my little garden patch,
drinking in the long absent sunshine,
sipping white wine,
humming old tunes,
passing the time.

No distractions here; no phones ringing, no urgent tasks; only the
intermittent whiz of white noise as cars pass by; only the
unintelligible cadenza of Italian dialect from fervent neighbours
planting basil, pulling weeds, pruning fruit trees,
smoking cigarettes,
chastening children,
singing lullabies.

My modest plot of green begs just one thing of me – time.
Time to linger,
time to listen,
and to think.
Time to remember, and give thanks.