The Dessert

Beyond the edge of waking years,

Where silver maps unroll,

There lies a kitchen wove of dreams,

Within a copper bowl.

The orchards of a bygone realm

Drop stars into the grass,

And memories like golden bees

In ambered sunlight pass.

A wizard wind stirs through the pane,

And whispers of the past,

Of autumns in a sweeter time

Too beautiful to last.

The Granny Smiths of Avalon

Are sliced with secret sighs,

Beneath a haze of cinnamon

That smells of ancient skies.

Then comes the spell of buttered flour,

With ancient oats entwined,

To blanket up the sleeping fruit

And leave the dark behind.

Into the hearth of glowing coals

The earthen dish descends,

Where kitchen-craft and elfin lore

And bitter winter ends.

The crust arises, crisp and crowned,

Like tumbled fortress towers,

Emblazoned with the alchemy

Of long-forgotten hours.

A single spoonful lifts the mist,

And through the rising steam,

I walk the mossy, emerald woods

Inside a childhood dream.