Sitting in the garden where the shadows waver,
I imagine myself a hero,a martyr or a sea-rover.
Out of a world of clocks and works
My office-troubled fancy turns
To the pretty mental photographs, the dull laugh over.
Sitting on a chair I am one of those
Who are not disposed of, but who dispose;
Nothing is here to alter or disturb.
My search for the active or the passive verb,
But in the garden sitting at ease
On the old rugged chair...........
i recall the sweet memories, those that still tranquil.
*Picture drawn by Me