Summers of larks bred sun-torn
wilderness flowers all round my colourful home
and scented dialect of childhood
still utters recollections of well-trodden roaming.

In that haven of steep meadows
sheaves leaned roasting among searing hot fields
as hosts of moss roses fed nectar
to butterflies which still ghost my wistful dreams.

Autumn-red juiced my girlhood
when it etched its vermillion into each adventure
yet where could young fervour
find an entrance again to freedom's real treasure ?