By Idris Mears

do we but live in versions  

of the same dreams 

so do you too return to a clearing  

in clear winter light  

and through the tracery of winter trees 

see a track up the slope of dead bracken  

to the flint wall of the great estate 

and know that if you were to set off 

there is a small gate with the latch left off 

somewhere along its length 

and beyond it exquisite and unbounded  

an early summer garden endlessly fresh after rain 

and in your yearning can you all but smell  

the alchemy of its fragrances 

all but feel the gentle breeze 

all but see the shaken silver of the poplar trees  

all but hear the rustle of each leaf 

be all but embraced by its utter ease