Cottage

I didn’t know you were

solid green with shades of

cowslip in-between, grey stone

plied from river bed

three razors immaculately left

bleeding on the bleached bench.

Your garden’s styled in ‘Hampton Court’

trees round and pruned with purple Iris

peeping through the glove of soil.

I’m stung with the eloquence

of each perfect detail immaculately

placed: a life defined by art

your home a holy grail of story.

I hear the drips of opened wounds

the stripped pine shows scars

of stolen lives.  Two torches stand

next to sunglasses the umbrella sentinel

as clocks chime their’ white rabbit’ rant

every fifteen minutes.

Morning wakes gently here

creeping from the marsh

illuminating yellow paint:

your cottage rests like a

worn thumb beside its other digits

coloured walls a totem to the past

cricket on the lawn

long summer suppers with

freshly squeezed lemonade

sticky to the tongue

with a tart aftertaste:

like love.