Garden Open for Charity

Last time we were welcomed onto this lawn
like those three – two women, one man – we stood
on the short bridge crossing an imagined ravine.

You’re a grandmother now, weren’t married then.
Its rails were painted oriental red,
last time we were welcomed onto this lawn.

We were three too – me, you, your hopeful man –
from the lawn on show, but isolated
on the short bridge crossing an imagined ravine.

The blonde girl could be you, when you were young,
dress white with giant swirls red as blood,
last time we were welcomed onto this lawn.

Like them we talked, a winding conversation,
then shook hands, so formal, and separated
on that short bridge crossing an imagined ravine.

From a bridge there could be no three-ways down,
unless one, undecided, unmoved, stayed,
the last time we were welcomed onto this lawn
and crossed the bridge over an imagined ravine.

E.A.M. Harris

If you have any thoughts on this poem, E.A.M Harris would be pleased to hear them.