Voices on the Wind
I always wanted an English Garden
to inspire my inactivity and to
hide the weeds. Maybe it was some
type of dream born from reading
Alice in Wonderland or some
old nursery rhyme with flowers.
It may have developed from a
fascination with anything English,
from Masterpiece Theater to
Agatha Christie. Life seemed to
feel better if I relished tea time
and cookies, biscuits really.
The bees and butterflies could
visit regularly. The grass would
eventually take a back seat, and
the world would be far better as
I sat in the shade with a PD James,
and visited my roots.
Would Inspector Barnaby find me
in a midsummer trance imagining
a world of mystery and intrigue?
Or would Shakespeare’s sonnets
break the silence in my mind?
Perhaps, I’d just lean back and
dream of lavender and lollipops.