I didn’t know you were
solid green with shades of
cowslip in-between, grey stone
plied from river bed
three razors immaculately left
bleeding on the bleached bench.
Your garden’s styled in ‘Hampton Court’
trees round and pruned with purple Iris
peeping through the glove of soil.
I’m stung with the eloquence
of each perfect detail immaculately
placed: a life defined by art
your home a holy grail of story.
I hear the drips of opened wounds
the stripped pine shows scars
of stolen lives. Two torches stand
next to sunglasses the umbrella sentinel
as clocks chime their’ white rabbit’ rant
every fifteen minutes.
Morning wakes gently here
creeping from the marsh
illuminating yellow paint:
your cottage rests like a
worn thumb beside its other digits
coloured walls a totem to the past
cricket on the lawn
long summer suppers with
freshly squeezed lemonade
sticky to the tongue
with a tart aftertaste:
like love.
