I leave my own garden,
modest – yet pleasant,
and set out,
bound for sylvan splendour.
Pavement
becomes path.
Sky
becomes treetops.
Traffic
becomes song.
Passing the odd jogger
(ought to be me),
the occasional dog-walker
(nod good morning).
But otherwise,
peace.
And my mind,
product of capitalism,
Wanders
and wonders –
What if all this were mine?
Would the birds, my tenants,
trill more heartily?
Would they hop across the path
more buoyantly?
Would the dappling light
be quicker to slow my breath?
The undergrowth hold more promise
of miniscule worlds, unseen?
Emma Foley is a freelance writer, living in the North of England with her husband and two young sons.