If I could be in the English countryside
I’d sit in the knot garden and listen to the whispers,
To the sweet girlish laughter and rustle of skirts of days long past,
I’d linger in the family church, fingers brushing the bone-white sarcophagus
As I pay my respects to the dark history of the keep.
If I could be in the English countryside
I’d trace the steps of the Virgin Queen and her ill-fated mother
As they drift along each path, misty fingers reaching toward white tulips
Before ducking away into the secret garden, French-tinted voices
Wondering at the bright yellow fields doting the Cotswold hills.
If I could be in the English countryside
I’d sit quietly in the soft-falling rain, memories enfolding me
As the pheasants fly up out of the brush, as the trees sway in the
Early morning breeze, the scent of each garden mingling,
Kissing me gently as I settle into the velvet history, my history.
If I could be in the English countryside, I would be in peace.
Dena L Moore
July 6, 2008