At the top of a hill, she calls
Beckons me with a twitching finger
I follow her through the grass
And stay to linger in her company
Her eyes burn bright and flash with tears
Of happiness, she is so alone for long
I follow her into her sitting room
A parlor bursting with cream, rose and ivy
I sit with her and drink her tea
From ancient china cups her grandmother
Brought back from "the old country"
(Though she doesn't tell which one)
As we sit talking, laughing
Sharing memories and fanciful fables
Myths brought on the crashing waves
I hear a low soft chime in the distance
The tone of her old clock resonates
She takes the cup of lukewarm tea
Heated only from my fingers
And leads me out the door
Leaving me with only a ring of daisies,
(A relic from the faeries, she tells me)
A pocketful of moss roses,
And a distant memory of a golden afternoon