Take them to an urban garden,
Preferably one that is old, with surprises hidden along narrow paths.
We went to the Bishop’s Garden, tucked below the National Cathedral.
They walked along the stones I’d tripped over as a child
Were enchanted by the same secret fountains,
burbling over the same mossy basins.
They played that they were singing princesses in the old stone gazebo
I’d played in with my friends when I was young.
The sun was bright,
The roses fragrant,
The stones cool,
The gazebo shaded.
The gulf between my youth
And theirs
Vanished.