Gardener’s Cottage

A narrow path snakes between two young trees
like a finger of incoming tide,
then stops

The house sits calmly, almost out of sight –
white, green and glass:
a high flint wall marks the border,
and pale pink petals, delicate as this summer afternoon,
spread out towards the lawn,
negotiating terms of assimilation

I wake, not quite part of this silent drama,
my tea chilled by the breeze from the north
that swirls like a search party
looking for a way through –
looking for me

Even streaks of unexpected sun
leave me cold, dragged out from the hidden warmth of a dream –
from the arms of some legendary woman,
a little too familiar
but welcome just the same

And now of course I cannot go back:
the wind becomes colder
and I need to advance
from one reality into another,
read some fantasy or listen to
a far-fetched story
about the watch house and the sea

I stir, stand to attention and find a new path back to the house,
which stands ready as always, open
to anyone,
full of myths and histories,
out of the limelight



Blakeney, not far from the beach