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March 12, 2014

At 14 Shepherd’s Hill the sun rose sweet
and golden, now some thirty months ago.
The kitchen, wide and white, presented us
with hissing water, trays of tea, and mugs.
When toast was buttered, tea was steeped, and from
the windows called the gleaming morning sun,
we stepped out through the parlour, took our seats
beneath the drooping foliage of fresh
green trees, and broke our fast. We slowly sipped
our tea but gladly drank in giant draughts
of April air, stirred sweet by breeze and spiced
with springtime flowers. Could a day begin
with more than this? The rustling leaves have since
replaced the words we spoke, in memory,
but what a conversation! What a rare
delight, in rainy London-town, to feel
such smooth cool breeze all rippled by the sun—
to hear the morning news in jeweled leaves,
brand new that year, and smell the pollen fresh
upon the petals of the golden air!
Now toast and tea at breakfast call that time
to dwell like happiness within my mind,
and with the warming sunlight peeping through
the gap between my blinds where scarlet pokes
the petals of a budding flower—well,
can greater joy be found than this?

One Comment leave one →
  1. March 14, 2014 9:15 am

    Ahh, great memories!

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