Remembering Boscobel

Light.
Apex greens and golden brown drone like hollow drums,
Heralding the summer’s summit.
Sacred solemnity.
Enclosures mirror the solstice scheme on all sides.
Life becomes a back drop, striking an elegant eternal pose,
Sinking into the new gray.
So much ancient brilliance,
So many chapters written long before
Accept new aspiration,
True only to some barely visible, distant and unexperienced course.
Plantation hues, deep under coats of timeless dust,
Speak like old men, remembering the days
When they too could shine out under the swollen skies of June.
They watch us stroll like ghosts in the garden,
Though they themselves, the pleasant specters of the past
May take only energy from our youth.
The day is cool.
Your hair shines like finished cherry or standing oak,
Like the hazy river and living rose,
Laying comfortable and warm at the base of my neck.
Even your brightest yellow petals torn with red
Are glazed green by the marshland in the valley beneath us.
The word of the day is “understanding,”
(like eyes locked between two lovers).
Everything here is intransient
So that even the swiftest breeze may not carry it away,
But stones are for the graveyard at the end of days.
Summer will change to fall, and
Together my dearest,
We shall weather the sinews of time,
And set the newest course of history.
Keep me always in the nearest chamber of your heart,
‘Til one day we return to Boscobel,
'Til death, do us part.