Perched high, he could see the vast garden.
Mottled ivy softens brick,
moss, woolly thyme carpet the path’s edge.
He doesn’t know the names
of the blue flowers
or the delicate white ones as big as saucers,
nodding what feels like a welcome.
High on his little leather throne,
momentary ruler of his gentle walled kingdom.
Pony’s muted gray darkens under the willow,
until repainted by sun.
A white glove guides the bridle.
Now – he can dream.
Soon he will follow
on the biggest ship, across a universe
to those new ones,
his.
They will be different,
He will know them –
their arms pulling him in,
and he will have found home
again.
On a train to somewhere
He holds the stranger/father’s hand.
Bag holds what’s left of him,
Fields look familiar.
Train goes forward by swaying sideways.
There will be a house.
There will be a mother.
He leans forward on his wicker seat,
urges the train onwards.
Hope suffuses thin chest, shrunken belly.
Love/hunger dries his mouth.
