This is my Father's tea garden,
lathes of light drip from the vine
lanterns collect dew. Wine in the heavy air
of the forgotten storm seduces lips.
He is far away now. The cloaked table
is encircled by my friends.
One asks me, "Am I your dream?"
I do not know. I keep roving
nomadic mind seeks homelands,
the places I was built.
Common ground, heather,
a hunt for adventure.
Following paths back from school,
the road remembers.
All is left are vestiges of then,
Time runs towards the lightning tree,
fields sleeping.
