I wish I could escape to Lilliput

and see out my days knowing

the world of giants

is buried in dust, that

the path to my home,

glistening in small dew

on the verges of my lawn,

where the log fire burns

and snaps with occasional wet wood

that had escaped from undercover

and tea is permanently on the go,

where I can read a book

with my feet curling

their stately pedal like digits

and the soft breeze

that retires through a small hole