Mine

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.