Wicket Gate

So what of dreamscape as the best,

one image that the rest evokes,

to childish mind, excitement dressed

as pleasure simply unalloyed,

medicament known by self alone?

I’ll brief recount that foreign land,

my heaven, to you quite alien,

though surely you can dwell as well,

share with yourself own children thrills, 

revisit spells, your wonderland?

Wrought iron, squat gate fore the drive -

that had been timber in our days -

sundial grass as frontispiece,

pink-wash, verandah, timbered cream,

the final house before the greens.

And white, to suit lawn tennis courts

small wicket gate, then pristine, clean,

(recovered, 80’s video)

for neither entry, or for block,

but for the set, our paradise,

Plates, willow pattern, clotted cream,

pram push past pavement ‘picture ma’am?’,

sand dug ‘daddy boats’, donkey rides,

the black white blur through album, glass,

to see that tingle, my face, past.