The French doors lie open,
the sun and breeze trip in, like visitors coming for tea.
The books sprawl across the old wicker table,
under them, a crisp white cloth.
The smell of toast dances with the summer morning.
birds, overjoyed by the beauty of life, sing along the branches of huge plane trees.
She has stepped away for a moment, but her perfume stays
like the ghost that fell in love with a queen.
These days of luxury, sun-kissed ease
are marked in difference from the older, darker days.
The money is less now, but she does not miss the abuse of wealth.
Sleep a long deep sleep
and wake with the gentle day,
let the universe provide for now.
Stand on the balcony and look down at the trees and green parkland,
and remember the dirty, city streets that can touch you no more.
Reblogged this on boofey2010.