Early one morning
one Sunday in May,
under the plane trees
brimming with Spring,
myself and my daughter
walked out for pleasure,
pleased with the sunshine
that played
with the spray
of a fountain,
gilded the gilt
of a dome.
Water ran fresh in the gutters:
young people skated
the wide, white pavement,
rollers ringing like bells.
And I thought as we sauntered
‘No wonder they call this
The Heavenly Fields!’
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1998–2021. All rights reserved.