A spot in her garden is perfect for placing

my face, so it's under her fig tree’s shading.

On terracotta tiles my legs are sunning,

as busying bugs buzz to jasmines, unstopping,

while gusts from honeysuckle perfumes are puffing

sugary breezes somehow, to me reaching.

Persepolis’ Paradise, here a patch cultivating,

by medlar and quince trees of home she is growing

in the changing climate of England’s permitting.

As if in the East, are passion fruits clinging

over her washing-line leisurely draping

under which we sit, her mint-teas a-sipping.

On the horizon, Wembley’s Arch is bridging.

On Harrow’s Hill, St. Mary’s spire’s soaring.

Zooming Heathrow planes are low-flying.

Bakerloo Line tubes behind bushes are swooshing

like waves on an island resort softly washing

rhythms ebbing, breaking, to-ing, fro-ing.

I don’t know names of the colourings bursting

through her lush greens, first hiding then popping,

but I know how to keep from missing by blinking,

printing the strobes of my camera’s shuttering

each butterfly’s poised cameo fit-for-Vogue-ing,

saving frame by frame my memory’s capturing,

for when in the future my dementia’s time-hopping

my infirm finale laps here will be looping.

I hold it, the moment clear for reliving,

rooting in her happy blooms, I’m promising.