Homes And Gardens (Poetry)

In my heart, I’m already in that garden
lounging under willow tree or larch
where a cloud of perfume wafts from yellow roses
climbing an old woven rustic arch.

The air’s alive with bees and insect-bustle —
dragonflies and butterflies abound —
skimming, flitting, hovering and sipping
nectar from the flowers — and the sound

of buzzing in the drowsy heat of summer
lends the daydream fantasy its space...
The lawn is sloped — runs gentle to the river
the ha-ha and gazebo claim their place.

Well-tended shrubs, traditional, are blooming —
those cottage types from childhood, pictured fond —
pale lilacs, bright azaleas edge borders
and vie with ornamental fern and frond.

It is a haven walled — securely private —
an orchard and a meadow at the rear
with outbuildings for chicken, goats and rabbits
all kept as pets, and not one neighbour near.

Such acres conjured from imagination
stretch wide their perfect landscape while I’m sat
denying dull reality — escaping
to green worlds far from dwelling in a flat.