nothing doing

Among the summer weeds I was quietly compelled by my own silence. 
The weight of my solitude was pleasant to bear- a kitten in the lap. 
The store of days had eroded in time, and I was innocent among the grass again. 
The sycamores spread their truth upon themselves in the leathery midriffs  
Simple grey words to forget all that we had passed through year after year. 
Yield not a second to the lure of plotting redemptive days ahead in nirvana 
or trying to set upon the moment with a steel-bottomed statement of truth. 
Or let the verbiage flow like a natural spring, slipping under the full-stops   
The message laden in the flora was always: continue with your glorious nothings 
So to people who hate their jobs and hate their lives, take those kind hands 
dig them into the pure cold soil, breathe in the triumph of a cloud and opt out  
as I did then when I saw a starling shock-eyed on the hill top and a still village of clover bent over towards the sea and the stones, stem hairs, lanes and rosehips.  
We were all quietly compelled by our own silence.