by Geoffrey Heptonstall

Wild flowers are moving through my mind.
Thorns of the rose bush warn the trespasser
as my eyes continue wandering
within the growth of speculations
among the many squares and circles
of the lichen-walled garden.
No-one knows what will happen
in the apple scattered grass.

The tree’s reflection crosses the window
which is our half-secret vantage.
We look onto an infinity gathering dust
that settles on everything.
Here once was someone’s shelter,
since gone, never to return.
No light shines in the abandonment.
My thoughts turn in trust to you.


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