I’m baking
On an old wall
Like a jean clad lizard.
The stones
Are warm, white and wise
Standing guard,
Towering and flaking
Over a little English memory.
A massive she oak
Casts her green hands
Protecting roses of
Blood and snow.
The wind softly coos,
Clearing false thoughts
Soothing the bite of the sun.
My shadow
Kicks her feet,
Startles a wren.
Bees like grapes,
Fuzzy like kiwis
Lazily drone.
It’s comfortable here.
Old fashioned.
Left briefly
In time’s wake.
Tea parties
White linen,
Floral dresses,
Top hats.
A swing missing its seat
Sways back and forth.
We hold our breath.
Through windows warped
There is a world forgotten
And a garden
Remembering.