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There was an apple tree,
In the garden at us,
On which rosy-red apples grew.
Now whenever I see an apple,
I think of you.
The walls were high,
And warming,
With many-many a-secret gate.
We would lie head-to-head talking,
'Till late.
Badgers wore fine waistcoats;
Tiggers hung from the trees.
We could dress-up as anything,
Cowboys and milkmaids and cops and or queens.
And be.
There was grass that went on till forever,
To run fast on (me, chasing, you, chasing, me),
With slopes to (oh dear!) get caught on;
And Roll and tumble,
And hug.
Though the path is melancholy confusing,
It's you that I shall always find.
On infinite-summer days dreaming.
In the garden
Of our mind
--isolde
