The sundial in a 1964 English garden, the ladies tea party and moan of gossip.
Mothers union whispered in crowd introductions, and a lone bird singing.
Where has the England of that hid security gone?
Where is the gravestone for me to mourn?
With the swiftness of an executioner’s sword, it ceased to be,
In the summer of a 70’s concrete devotion.
Sometimes, I hear music that seems to come from a Brigadoon secret time tunnel, where an invisible gate frustrates my reach.
In that sleeping wonder, all the welcoming shorelines of England laugh as if to say, “Not dead yet, wait and see”!
Ah, but can ghosts live again in flesh incarnations? Can an all-powerful hand manipulate reality?
Let the music in the sleeping moment tell of hope, even where there is none.