March 10, 2018

 

 

The Lily pond, not as it seems –

not quite the same as in one’s dreams.

 

A mystery around it lingers,

and not the place for tiny fingers.

 

No birds on view, the sky quite still,

with clouds now absent, yet still a chill

 

is in the air, as winter’s sun,

sits low, unsure if spring’s begun,

 

and early flowers, in wonderment,

burst forth as if heaven sent.

 

Each snowdrop, crocus and daffodil,

a welcome sight on Richmond Hill.

 

Though the Lily pond, not as it seems –

not quite the same as in one’s dreams.

 

A mystery around it lingers –

and not the place for tiny fingers.

 

 

 

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