In dreams I return often
to my childhood garden,
that vast rectangle of lawn
and the bushes around the sides.
When you wake during a recurring dream,
you know at once it has been recurring —
this one all my life,
including the years I lived there.
The lawn has long been cemented over.
The raspberry bushes, the ferns and bamboo
and the two spreading willows
have all disappeared.
Nothing of it exists;
not the swing, not the summerhouse.
My brother and I
went back one day and saw.
But in my dreams I return
often to that childhood garden,
my archetypal garden, always green.
And I am at home there.