The old iron bedstead makes a good bed at
the bottom of the white cottage garden,and
out from it sprouts,
stinging nettles and a solitary tiger lily,
a filly among the rough,
nature can be cold hearted and tough.

Nesting in an old tub underneath a mulberry bush,
a blackbird sings songs in the morning which longs
to be older,
and an old well now dry but once wished upon by
ladies in crinoline
sits and silently cries out its thirst.
This was the garden to be in the cottage where we
had such sadness and joy.

Many years pass and the footpath falls under the fast rolling weeds,
the cottage now empty is still and
surprisingly white as if
the passage of years has been a delight.

Strange though that I still go to meander,
pander to melancholy in the place where
we kissed under mistletoe
so long ago.