I’d gone to find a memorial plaque
in deepest darkest Surrey,
but fell upon a verdant garden
and Rhode Island Red Hens.
A beautiful English woman tended them.
I spoke with her across the hedge
she pointed out the Manor house,
a killing place in days long gone.
We dismissed the boundaries,
she made me tea.
and I complimented her fine shrubbery.
She seemed alone
her husband gone,
from this England
she'd settled on.
we then made love
though no reason we could find
why we fitted like a fashioned glove,
she’s often on my mind.