The Gardener

The gardener next door, leaning over a fallen sycamore, across a soft hewn lawn, his arms more livid with sap than the tree he heaved; the man of my dreams, next door,

and fifty years or more, I listen for the tone of his voice and the click of his key, as he parks on the tarmac next-door, to me, the man of my dreams, and more. 

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