I wish I could escape to Lilliput

and see out my days knowing

the world of giants

is buried in dust, that

the path to my home,

glistening in small dew

on the verges of my lawn,

where the log fire burns

and snaps with occasional wet wood

that had escaped from undercover

and tea is permanently on the go,

where I can read a book

with my feet curling

their stately pedal like digits

and the soft breeze

that retires through a small hole

in the dusky glass and which rattles

the chain of a small black spider’s

endeavour…

enough to curse the crick in my neck

during Winter’s last laugh

but bliss on a Summer’s eve

as the south winds rock me gently,

I would dream and have no place left to run,

I would sit still,

surrounded by sentences

and I would surrender to the fading beauty

of your smile as you grew old

in your rocking chair.

Ian D. Hall 2016