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When Mandy was there.
And the dancing heads of the dandelions
On the uncut, net-less, tennis court
Did not seem to matter.
There was even a certain rightness
In the tangled jungles of clematis
And wild hops,
All growing in the memory
Of the rusting northern fence.
The sun would rise, linger fondly
and fall with few regrets.
There was, so it seemed, a rightness to all things
While the sunlight dappled her golden skin
And wild seascapes of auburn hair,
The light was very different then,
When Mandy was there.
