Mistress

who gardens my inner world
that its secrets might flower as they should —
Delphic and cave-throned
in the hollow out of which all dreams come,
you have settled in the shade of orchard trees
at the Calf's Head with your two or three
glasses of wine and the Sunday papers

until I — a restless walker — will
return, like some male Flora,
bringing, while the light is good,
wild flowers dipped in streams to freshen them
for you.