Grape Vine Dream
By the westward-facing wall of home,
A tunnel of grapes on a green summer's day
In brown paper bags to ward off the bees.
Anointed by hedge clippings, dusk gathered round—
Wheel barrow pushed to a backyard of dreams
Past a red cement veranda where ants up and down.
One day you'll open our squeaky front gate
Then under the familiar pagoda of yore
With new tenants unable to hear your footfall.
A stubble of courageous grass underfoot,
Patches of sunlight to remember your way
In wisteria purple where once you'd played.
Tin soldier dinky toys bartered by boys,
Among the vines you were hidden away
In an improvised hut up on high in the light.
All of our neighbours and all of our men
Dream people lost in a landscape of time—
The grape vine still harvests our singular line.