Mid-July, I shut down the smart phone
put the lap-top to sleep, flatter myself
that my Facebook presence will be missed.
Don’t expect my name in your inbox,
or look for a text from a cross-country train.
I’m dead to the e-world, wired
instead, to a lawn mower-bearing breeze,
eyes fixed to a book on my knee, glancing up
only when un-oiled machinery
squeaks in the green cave of clematis
where chicks clamour to the shadow
of a grub-bearing beak.