At the bottom of my garden,
a neighbour rose scrambles over
an old wall into the sunshine
space, waves long fronds out over
painted archways that offer a
permanent illusion, a trompe
l’oeil journey into somewhere that
lives in my imagination.
Plausible in summer, spring and
even autumn, a comforting
fantasy in frosts and chilly
winters, this escape from the real
beckons under the faded pink
of this last rose waving greeting
or maybe a final goodbye.