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