I wake to soft sounds of rain on my roof.
The bush, calling me for a naked walk.
Hoping for insight or some kind of proof
that life, once felt through senses, outlives thought.

As toes sink into damp ground between stones,
A cool breeze sweeps my wet skin, shining leaves.
Litheness recalled from a childhood outgrown,
Wild creatures watching, with unstartled ease.

I'm cold and return to my wood-warm hut,
Without cover of feathers or fur, exposed.
An hour out in weather proves long enough.
I dry myself off and slip into clothes.

Does this bare walk speak to my vanity,
Or the bare-bums lost to humanity?

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

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