The pleasure's one of its anticipation

Knowing what will happen, when, where,

though why -

For all my pondering - rarely gets answered.

It's the pleasure of expectedness,

Of the light breeze, birdsong,

well-gardened air,

And vapour zips in the timetabled sky.

It's quite unexceptional, perfect peace

In a domesticity of one, civilian

To the point of irenic stasis, slothful

To a fault. An industrious bee wings past

Towards its buzzing labours. Blackbirds hop

From worm to worm. I stretch my idleness

And drop a book I tried but failed to read.

A hedgehog waddles down the weeded

path.

A chaffinch, perched on a propped rake,

chirps,

Then vanishes within my blink.

I have a bird in one eye and a trout

For my supper. I'm talking to myself

In my garden of indolence where I grow

Lethargy, lilies, and sit breathing mint,

Rosemary, thyme, sage, thinking of how

I'll cook

That fine fat fish I caught in a mad moment

Devoted to dexterity and doing.

The breeze riffles the dropped

unreadable book.

Shall I have chips with it, or baby potatoes?

Salad? Green beans? Or asparagus

spears?

At this rate I'll be mentally exhausted

Before it's time to cook and eat. Aha!

I could have deep-fried bad book

... Thank God

For chairs, cushions, blue sky, and peace

and quiet.

I so much looked forward to my day off.

Now that it's here, what I looked forward to,

I realise, was doing damn all in a deckchair.

Thank God, too, for this Chablis, black

olives,

Sunshine, and all these fragile butterflies,

Busy, beautiful, and living their lives

As if there's no tomorrow. Kick the book.

That's the stuff! Boot it away. I'll leave it

Out here on the grass. I won't improve it.

All this is my property! My goods and

chattels,

Impedimenta, my but-and ben, mine own

Estate and little home, and all for me ...

Another airliner - high energy,

Sky-power, propulsion, and momentum,

Exactly what I'm doing without today

By being bum-bound on a comfy chair.

Can't I get off my butt and do something?

Well, no - frankly. It's my day off, my first

In weeks. I've done enough. It's time to do

Nothing, for controlled irresponsibility.

I'm relaxing. The bird in my right eye

Fidgets. Sun does funny things to the

leaves.

Hedgehog's back! Is it a he or a she?

It goes past me like a self-propelled handbag.

I need to pee. But if I go inside

I'll be tempted to stay. Well, it's my grass,

And there's no one about ... So here goes

water.

Deeply, I regret having pissed on the book.

Much worse, though, is I think I've doused a

daisy

Which didn't deserve it. One day, I might invent

A board or card game, but for one player -

It won't be called 'solitaire'. I'll call it

'Time on My Side', or else 'As I Like It'.

I'm lying low, but coming up for air.

My wandering mind patrols its boundaries.

There are some things I like better than this -

A walk along a beach on Bernaray,

Laughing with Lillias in the summer-house

I can't yet bring myself to call a 'gazebo'.

Or dozing in Vienna over coffee.

And other things, equally innocent ...

Some might be physical. Not one

means 'work'.

• From The Year's Afternoon by Douglas Dunn. Published by Faber and Faber price £7.99