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