The sunken lane

The sunken lane

The sun has rounded earth’s circus safely.

Dawn holds a singing robin in her hand.

A cataract of light pours its bright gold,

And opens the fields to the length of day.

Bending its gaze uphill towards a cream house,

The sunken lane is an enchanted place.

Its rust-enamelled gate guards its domain

Of mystery, where refuge seems to lie.

The trees, disposed at intervals, space

Out some inner design, and reflect the sky,

Where the pink of a shock of flamingos

Swims mirrored in a metallic blue lake.

From this stony angle of ground

The tangents of a young boy’s mind curved up

Crossing the stile of imagination,

Where things changed shape like Melies’s magic moon.

Here a desperado could lurk in peace,

Or a Lakota brave find hallowed ground.

A ninja turtle would have camouflage;

Or Mario a hedge to skim his cart ;
Can a place shape itself into your soul?

In the purplish brown of late evening,

Promising a world past the physical,

This question fines itself into thin air;
And the sun rounds earth’s circus once again.