what a lovely morning it was that day
when, summers and summers ago
you said to me: “let’s take a turn about the garden,
shall we?”
and, taking my hand
you led me down a brick path, rainwashed deep red
where the trees met overhead, their green limbs lilting
in careless caress
wreathed, in glistening rain-jewels,
they seemed to me
magic tree-sprites, dryads
so still and lovely
i cried with delight
and touched a brown arm, in reverence
while you watched, magic-eyed.
no words trespassed
the sacred silence,
no sound, but hummed
in secret rhythm
with breath, wind, twig, leaf
as quivering hearts
surged to lips
and met,
in ripples of ecstasy
under the fairy-shade
of the dryad-tree
in a shower of melting diamonds.

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