Beneath the arches of The tree branches, the sun spills, A cascade of lights, bright.
Time spins on, spun like The web in corners, Filling the air with heat, And the scent of earth rising. Voices murmur, Known and unknown, As echoes ripple, Into the sky-blue embrace, A million stories caught, In wisteria and blooms. Under the curtain of petals, The scent of the garden calls, An unforgotten sown seed, Held in a cradle of hope.

• Margaret Atwood