New and Collected Poems
Robin Fulton
1997

A June morning, too soon to wake,
too late to fall asleep again.

I must go out — the greenery is dense
with memories, they follow me with their gaze.

They can’t be seen, they merge completely into
the background, true chameleons.

They are so close that I can hear them breathe
though the birdsong is deafening.