The gardener next door, leaning over a fallen sycamore, across a soft hewn lawn, his arms more livid with sap than the tree he heaved; the man of my dreams, next door,
and fifty years or more, I listen for the tone of his voice and the click of his key, as he parks on the tarmac next-door, to me, the man of my dreams, and more.
Cherry Coombe 