Wimbledon

Walking on the common in heavy blue light,

she says to him the time for children, were there ever one, has

passed, that would be that, and two close calls aside,

she proves to be right, and the years pass with happiness

too great to be measured, because one does not measure what feels

endless, just as this land was once a queen’s private hunting estate,

everything around it hers too, there were no boundaries,

until a village grew to service her horses and

part-time tailors, the cobblers and surgeons and cooks needed

to properly entertain guests, and then the uninvited came,

took what was not desirable, built their limestone houses,

rolled carriages down two-track paths until the dirt was stone,