It comes out blinking from hibernation, sniffs at pollen and scents, and agrees to trundle around with me, for as long as the long days last, digesting what we discover and now and then extruding a little package of words. The Fairies' Winter Palace Queen Caroline, I think, planted these chestnuts with their spiralling ridged bark. In another world Peter and his freaky friends claimed this hollow one, capacious enough for several children, if they dare, to stand inside, holding their breath. The Monarch caterpillars were crawling away, having stripped bare the only plant they could fancy.
Poetry goes to bed.
The chestnut blossoms are dead. The gates close early. What wanted to be said is said.