Quintessential Codswallop

It’s funny -
Though I know I will never see her
Walking up the path in my grandmother’s garden
Maneuvering around the acorns under the old oak tree
Passing under the tall blue pine,
Looking at her feet (read: her phone, held in soft white hands)
In elegant black sandals and bracelets,
Dark hair modestly hanging over her face
And hiding Cleopatra’s nose -
Though I know it will never happen,
Still I smile inside
Because I can easily imagine her doing so
And such a sight (though more a dream)
So out-of-place in a French village
Would make my summer.

In her dresser drawer she keeps a meadow
Hidden under torn jeans and branded sweaters
Which she visits when things get lonely.

She runs beside the laughing brook
Bubbling under swallows that dip and sing
With the butterflies over dancing daffodils.

On top of her favourite hill under an old ash
She sits and scrutinizes the horizons
And dreams about the lands beyond.

The mountains are so distant that they’re painted
By the sun and the sky and the moon and the stars
And from there she can only see the snow.

When she leaves the drawer and pulls out clothes
And weighs herself down with imported cotton
She smiles sadly and turns away

But never forgets her field of butterflies.