English GardenA Poem by BritanniaMemories of my garden in EnglandAre you still there Espalier? Do your arthritic fingers clutch the kitchen wall while you birth your summer blushed fruits? Blanched flesh dribbling. Does the moss trimmed quilt placed at your feet bleach rosy in the insipid sun, and shock scarlet with the rains? Does thyme march over the rockery wall and dandelions count your days with feathery clocks? A drifting calendar that lingers on your seasoned trunk. Is Rowan guarding the door? Pinnate leaves buffeted by westerlies. While runes course his berried branches, a crimson warning for the dark ones to stay away. © 2013 BritanniaAuthor's Note
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