for Gwynne Stolle in loving memory
In her garden, as in mine,
the earth is let be earth,
and flowers grow
where flowers will,
not where she wills them to.
In her garden, as in mine,
light falls through the green
it’s made, softened,
dappling everything below it,
even me and the dogs.
In her garden, exiles of the world
meet and talk together
as if there were no nations,
no religions, no corporate logos –
as if it were all meant to be green.
