If I could be in the English countryside

I’d sit in the knot garden and listen to the whispers,

To the sweet girlish laughter and rustle of skirts of days long past,

I’d linger in the family church, fingers brushing the bone-white sarcophagus

As I pay my respects to the dark history of the keep.

If I could be in the English countryside

I’d trace the steps of the Virgin Queen and her ill-fated mother

As they drift along each path, misty fingers reaching toward white tulips

Before ducking away into the secret garden, French-tinted voices

Wondering at the bright yellow fields doting the Cotswold hills.

If I could be in the English countryside

I’d sit quietly in the soft-falling rain, memories enfolding me

As the pheasants fly up out of the brush, as the trees sway in the

Early morning breeze, the scent of each garden mingling,

Kissing me gently as I settle into the velvet history, my history.

If I could be in the English countryside, I would be in peace.