6. Judgement

 I'd flitted from dusting

 to washing to watching,

 tried counting the clouds,

 tried reading their grey,

 condemned the dry weeds,

 pruned, mowed, hoed.

             “Not this, not that,”

             I wrote last night.

 Air hung slow, bunched

 over the buddleia’s

 reach, its perfume wine

 where the bees dropped;

 they fell at the hive door,

 dancing.

              “Now,” it decrees,

              swabbing the dust

              from the path.

             “This and that,

              this and that,

              this and that.”