the steadying breeze of Bach

I'm twenty dark rings deep
and two thousand thunders weak
in cedar, oak and olive years.

My fingers are in the ground
the ants they crawl and tickle
and sculpt the warm soft sand

I caught me ladybirds and frogs
and set them on the morning fog
with sweaty hands in summertime.

Now I'll rest me near the river old
and count the bits of fools gold
between my toes and feet.