Shakespeare, Hamlet, Prince of Darkness
I grew up with tales from my mother's childhood summers.
The house across the stream, with the chauffeur's quarters
over the garage & a sleeping porch.
A clay tennis court, gone to seed during WW2 when gas
was rationed & fewer folks could get there to maintain it.
A dock and canoe. Always a dock, always a canoe.
Lily pads. Always the lily pads & painted turtles sunning themselves.
Who's There? Happy ghosts of summers past hovering just over the shoulders of the
happy figments of my imagination.