A mere illusion. Mosaic shadowland in black and grey; Yet in this silent world Cottages stand, sunwashed, Long after their demise.
Lured by the past I wish to enter cool dark doorways; To draw back faded curtains And scent the wood-smoke Within those secret walls.
Forgotten dandies Watch from under crow-black stovepipe hats; Memories of Waterloo As fresh as Vietnam. The Mutiny still unborn.
Moments after this Stolen faded second, they turned away Down Sheep Street to the 'Dog Inn'; For Porter and cold beef. A clay pipe and cider.
Silent halted streets ****** back to vanished life and rural din, The reek of horse and men Now past recall. Lost Moments. Gone forever.
While in her ghost garden, Close by the gate and vanished red brick wall. Anne Wheler, dressed in crinoline And broad silk ribbons, keeps her Rendezvous with my gaze.
This poem was suggested by a book of old calotypes and daguerrotypes of early 19thc. Stratford-on-Avon. Warks. UK. and particularly one of Anne Wheler staring wistfully into the unknown future from the privacy of her 1850s walled garden in the town.