This is Heaven Copyright © April 2009 Julie Sea-Borne

Where the birds sing, and the bees hum,
And the afternoon sun catches and stays,
Baking paths and metal chairs, until they bite at unwary flesh.
Where I learn how to breathe again, and where she creates,
A fantasy land, a world peopled with little folk.
Where flowers nod, and blossom drifts from an over fertile cherry tree,
Thick with the promise of dark, sweet fruits to come,
The delights of jam, pies and homemade cherry vodka.
Here, now, this is heaven.

A red tin watering can, inexpertly plied as she waters with careless abandon,
Plants, lawn, paths and feet, all thoroughly soaked and glistening.
A slumbering cat, bonelessly sprawled in a plant pot,
Flecks of sun hardened soil sprinkling the soft fur of its belly.
An indignant, shocked protest, as it too is watered, in hopes it may grow.
An Englishman’s home, may be his castle,
But for this Englishwoman, it is her garden.
This tiny, non-descript plot of land, bound on all sides by house and fence,
Yet, look up, and above is ten thousand acres of sky.

A bowlful of water for the making of mud pies, long grass for a jungle,
Home to so many animals, that, on the rare occasions I mow,
A thorough search must be mounted, to ensure no loss of plastic life.
I am reliably informed, that fairies inhabit our garden.
Drawn by its disordered unruliness, its wild abandon.
And, sometimes, eyes half closed against the sun,
Senses tuned into the busy thrum of nature,
I fancy I see them, quick and jewel like, darting and weaving,
Their wings incandescent blurs of movement.

She makes a snail farm.  Suppressing shudders, I watch,
As she searches the dark, secret places for livestock,
Confidently plucking each up by its shell, displaying green frilly underskirt,
Delighting when one ventures probing horns from its tawny home.
She finds a green beetle, carapace hexagonal, and we watch, for what seems hours,
Its patient scrambling, over the obstacle course she has built for its amusement,
And I sympathise with its frustration, at the forever climbing of twigs and leaves,
Antennae vibrating in questioning bafflement, it scurries in ever decreasing circles,
Before she finally grows bored, and sets it free.

I am given cups of delicious mud tea, my plate piled high with such gourmet delights
As twig soup and dandelion cake, which I eat with appreciative relish.
Until she is satisfied, and I can return, with relief, to my glass of Chardonnay,
Droplets of cold condensation on my palm, the shock of icy tartness on my tongue,
I tip my head back, eyes shut, feeling the caresses of the sun warm on my face.
Where time stands still; and an afternoon lasts forever,
Where a child can imagine; and an adult forget.
Where secrets are whispered; and promises made.
Here, now, this is heaven.