Grasmere ©

An afternoon walk in a gingerbread wind;
Autumn in England, falling leaves spin
in the spice-speckled breeze, serenading the ville:
Come one, come all, down from every green hill.

Follow a trail near a trickling stream,
through sheep-dotted meadows, serene as a dream;
across creaking bridges, we forge straight ahead,
enticed by aromas of fresh gingerbread.

Secrets revealed in a garden of stone
by felicitous spirits of lives now far gone;
time is eternal in wondrous lands
of visions like blossoms from artisan hands.

Gingerbread whispers, but more than a trace,
as we follow in hopes we'll arrive at the place
where gingerbread wishes are plenty, not few,
and gingerbread dreams always come true.