If I could paint a pristine scene
Using words from my mind
Then I would word a whispering breeze
In an English garden, Willow lined.
And if I could build a place to dwell
With words instead of wood,
Then I would stage a cottage, fine,
In that English garden, Willow lined.
Yet, words seldom paint a scene
Vivid as we’d like to see
And a poet’s world is not the place
Where others want to be.
But it’s the place that I will live
Until a better place I find,
Perhaps a place of lasting peace;
Perhaps a garden, Willow lined.