I dreamt of having
 
white doves, a swing,
borders bright with bloom,
a lawn all damp with morning dew –
but these are only things.
 
I have a little room, a view;
I hear schoolchildren at their play;
birds land blithely on my roof;
buds on the distant poplar trees
will soon unglue
and turn to green again.
 
Why grieve for doves, or lawns or swings
when I have all these other things?
 
Gill McEvoy

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Gill McEvoy  would be pleased to hear them