If I could wait a thousand years,
or even a thousand more,
I’d sit peacefully in this garden,
the home that I adore.
When sweet evening trees
brushed tree top tips,
and we sat on the trampoline
spitting watermelon pips.
And the roses curled tight
like a hug around the home,
golden like a sunset
and lilac like my bones.
They were pink along my cheeks
and whiter than the walls,
twisting leaves and viscous thorns
mimicked our front door.
The colour of the mint on the steps
and the swing in the big ash tree,
and the shaking in my heart
which was always meant to be.
So I’m standing in this garden
and I’m feeling way too old,
the roses now are dying,

I feel so very cold.

Colder than the soil
where pets have gone to sleep,
where buds spring up
and spring prepares to leap.
And the sun is bright and warm
but I’m not really there,
the gate is closed,

locked and stolen,

I think I’m getting scared.