The Dessert

In orchards where the silver moon-moths sleep,

And shadows weave what memories long to keep,

There stands a cottage built of braided thyme,

Touched by the magic of a forgotten clime.

Upon the windowsill where starlight drips,

A spell is baking in the cooling crips.

The Anjou pears, of pale and phantom gold,

Hold summer’s nectar in their liquid hold,

Dusted with cinnamon from dragon-wings,

And memories of forgotten fairy-kings.

Beneath a crust of oats and ancient star-dust bound,

The sweetest echoes of the past are found.

A gentle heat breathes out from masonry,

Of brown-sugar moss and toasted hazel-tree.

It smells of autumns that I used to know,

In realms beyond the veil, so long ago.

Where grand-dame elves would stir the bubbling sweet,

And serve the wood-sprites this enchanted treat.

I close my eyes and taste the amber spice—

A fleeting portal to the realm of ice,

Of golden leaves that never quite decay,

And golden hours that never slipped away.

Oh, cradle me in crumbles, warm and deep,

And rock my nostalgia to a peaceful sleep.