Our

Without rain, our garden seems to sag,
the middle of an older bed.
Innocence, a child with a purple ball thrown over the hedge,
knocks at the back door, a blushing smile.
If only one had time to stop and record what was said,
this petty dialogue lost, unrecognised,
without sense. Maybe last time
there was a purpose;
replay and make sure that sureness is always lost.