I’m here—though sliding still
through possibilities.
Long forsaken idylls
blow feather songs to me,
where sunflowers reach and rake
on tilting sun baked days,
harvest winds warmly shake
the green sheathed yellow maize.

Ah, such dream-gardens gone:
they will not let me sleep.
The ivy hanging from
their crumbling walls yet wreaths
my quarrelling old heart.
Their gates will not open;
the weed-cracked red brick paths
now slug-bound and broken.


Ghost Garden
Source: Editors’ Picks

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