Tanya’s secret garden,
where she’ll fill the years with hours,
hides in plain sight by the Mersey.
Asking names of plants & flowers
she hunkers captivated, squints
at faded labels, slowly reads
out Araucaria araucana
whispered, worshipful, and freed
from the hammered rapid language
life has taught her by degrees,
muted here by arboretum, pool
and rock and root simplicities.
A weary mile away is brick
and wall and views unseen
through windows smeared to grime
of choking weeds too dark a green.
Here, for now and always,
windows open day on day,
where Tanya, on her crumbling ledge,
watches them unfold away
to futures blooming distantly,
perenially, and bright.
And I can only stand,
watch and will her into flight.
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