Black tree trunks stand
like stately sentinels,
before high-up dormer eyes,
staring across well-turned lawns,
undulating and silent.

Glossy leaves of ivy
and cropped shrubs skirt
the grand house.
Cloaking around the foundation, up
to tendrils splayed, grasping
over white wood
toward the eaves.

Snug in a feigned union
of nature and permanence,
sitting lordly and shelter
for the burgher’s wife,
wealth measures me
in an oblique view.
As I sweat,
leaning pressed against
the iron gate,
paused and looking upon
collected dreams.