You arrive,

With the scent of coffee,

With wind moving over English grass,

With water dancing its way through Tudor cobblestone,

With the distant sound of a lute duet,

With rays crashing on medieval glass.

You arrive,

In the laughter of birth,

In the cardamom of mourning.

A secret invitation,

To rebuild this house,

To close this wound,

To carry the rose of restoration.

And I know it's you.


Copyright 2020