Happiness is a cup of herbal tea on a wooden bench beneath an overhanging rowan branch.
It’s the slight breeze rippling down the hill that kisses the back of my neck.
It’s in the quiet country road and the cyclist who passes the gate in his own private world.
It’s in the stretch of the black cat upon the deck, claws out, upside down, side-eye staring straight at me.
It’s in the cool air across my bare feet, in the sight of my newly polished purple toenails.
It’s in the hum of next door’s lawnmower, and the scent of cut grass wafting cross the fields.
It’s in the clothes that dance upon the line almost dry.
It’s in the lines of a new poem scribbled in an ornate notebook; a gift from my son.
It’s in all of the little minutes gathered together like beads on a string.