Saturday

I climb the hill with the dog.

The sky is spotless blue.

Three lines arrive in my head:

I don’t like myself at the moment

but I don’t know how to be different.

I don’t know what different to be.

I stop in a gateway to write them down

and some skylarks flutter by,

glinting like fishes.

Later, in a secluded field,

I see tree skeletons against the sky,

and I’m happy again.