White Rabbit
the moss
looks velvet
on the tree
a smudge of summer
there
where the white mushroom
opens its umbrella
to roof the rain
a lingering leaf on a limb
refuses to fall
the seasons in submission
I long for spring
the growing everywhere
in England it must be magic there
cobblestone and window-boxes
fresh berries and scones
the clatter of cups and saucers
lilly bells a-ringing
the little shop
cracked in leather
bound books
primed in proper prose
plucked in petals
lost in love
the knoll
is velvet
like the moss
a place to drift
once the cup is empty
and all the words are spent
on things that cost
the Queen
too much
in commonwealth
TL