Awake to soft rain's gentle press on roof,
the bush is calling me for a naked walk.
Hoping for insight or some kind of proof
that feeling alive through senses, tops thought.

Damp ground gives way to my feet between stones,
cool breeze on wet-skin - as with dripping leaves,
litheness recalled from a childhood outgrown,
wild creatures watching, with unstartled ease.

Chilled, I return to my warm wood-stove hut,
without feathers or fur - too exposed.
A hour out in weather is quite long enough.
I dry myself off and slip into clothes.

Is this flesh-walk some whim born of sanity
or the red-faced, bare-bum of vanity?

[Sonnet from a collection by S.C.N. Pockley]

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