I can never go back.

That much is sure.

The mist which once carpeted

My sculptured lawns

Appears now furtively to me

In restless dreams.

I imagine the elms still rise

Majestically as if sentinels

Guarding the wrought iron gates.

The Nuthatch and Jay once king

May sing sweetly in my garden yet.

Summer may bring its bounty pure,

Autumn its mellowed colours,

And winter, that harbinger of night

Must ever by Spring be tamed.

New growth may burgeon on my

Azalea pink beds and to the door

The roses still make their passage.

And I, when I waken

On this distant sun-baked shore

Far from those English glades

Will give fervent thanks to God

For my deliverance from the

Spectral sigh of long gone voices.

© 2017 James Hanna-Magill

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